A Simple Word So Heavy
by BadonKaDank
Summary: When life and reality took hold and their young hearts grew older, the two only assumed they'd be saying it for the rest of their lives. Neither could pinpoint the exact moment in their lives when they started only hoping and not expecting it to be true. Stanley knew precisely when those hopes were shattered. It took Stanford a little longer to realize the same thing.
1. I Have Make Mistakes

**A/N: _What's this? Badonk's already at it again with the angst and pain? That's right, folks! New-and-improved angst and pain to be exact! And let's be honest, that's the best kind._**

 ** _This idea has been in my mind for much too long and it is finally time to set it loose on the rest of ya'll. I apologize in advance._**

* * *

 **I Have Made Mistakes**

"Haha, yer so lame, Poindexter!"

"You're lame!"

"Take that back, ya big, uh, bignose!"

"Stanley, we have the same nose."

"Shut it!"

Ford squealed in delight and went to hide under his covers when his brother launched at him, fingers wriggling with obvious intent to tickle. It was a futile attempt to keep himself safe, so when the inevitable spasms wracked his little body while Stanley continued the torment he only laughed. He couldn't see an end in sight until the door suddenly opened, revealing the figure of their Ma with her hands on her hips, looking decidedly unimpressed.

"Ya boys are suppose'ta be sleepin'."

Stanley froze, caught red-handed, and Stanford ducked his head to hide the flush in his face caused by both breathlessness and guilt. They had been sent to bed quite some time ago, and it was only then that he realized just how long they'd been talking and having fun.

"Sorry, Ma," Stanley said, looking at the sheets, face colored in a similar brand of shame.

"S'fine," she finally sighed, waving her hand in a dismissive manner, "Just go ta sleep now. Ya got school in the mornin'."

"Yes, mama," Ford chirped obediently. She gave them both a look that Stanford couldn't place before smiling in that gentle way she did that made the world seem like a better place.

"G'night, boys."

"Night."

"Nighty-night!"

As soon as she turned the light out and closed the door, Stanford elbowed his twin lightly in the ribs. "I told ya ya were bein' too loud."

"Wha- you were the one bein' noisy!"

Stanley huffed and Ford rolled his eyes, shoving his brother onto his back. "C'mon, we gotta sleep now. Ma's orders."

"Pfft, whatever," Stanley stuck his tongue out in defiance but made no move to get up again, and Stanford took it as cue to lay down too. He might have gone to his own bed, but he'd already gotten comfy on the bottom bunk. Besides, it hadn't been the best day at school and he didn't want to have any of the scary dreams. The ones that revolved around shadowy monsters that tried to cut off his fingers -the extra ones that Stanley said made him awesome and special. Sleeping with his twin made them stay away.

He snuggled against Stanley's side, pulling the covers up as he did. He matched the other's smile and gave his brother a little peck on the cheek. He couldn't tell if Stanley eyes were open or not, but he knew he was still awake because he wrapped his arms around him and gave him a tight squeeze.

"Goodnight, Lee."

"G'night, Sixer."

The words were said out of habit more than anything else at that point, but it still made Stanford feel lighter and warmer to hear it. Knowing Stanley was right there, always ready to echo the words back to him, it just made life all the better. It might not have seemed special to anyone else, but to them, it meant the world, and Stanford knew his twin felt the same when he thought that they would be saying that word until they got old and gross.

When life and reality took hold and their young hearts grew older, the two only assumed they'd be saying it for the rest of their lives.

Neither could pinpoint the exact moment in their lives when they started only hoping and not expecting it to be true.

Stanley knew precisely when those hopes were shattered. It took Stanford a little longer to realize the same thing.

* * *

The first time he says it after "The Incident", he nearly doesn't register it. So full of bitter rage and indignant hurt that he almost doesn't acknowledge it.

Almost.

Ford wanted to scream, to throw something, to find Stanley and punch him in the face, because it was his fault! It was all his fault! He'd ruined _everything_. He deserved to be thrown out. He deserved to have him be angry with him. He deserved it all, because it was his fault.

His. Stupid. Fault.

The book was hitting the opposite wall with a loud slap before Ford even realized he'd picked it up to begin with. The teen startled, staring at it for several minutes, letting his mind wander so far into itself that his thoughts became white noise to blanket the tempest of emotions he couldn't seem to control.

He hadn't meant to say it, it had just slipped out without him thinking. It had gotten dark, and he'd been tired, and it had just… escaped him.

Why that mattered so much, he tried not to contemplate. Tried and failed.

He knew exactly why it mattered. It mattered because he'd almost gotten through the whole day being able to pretend that it didn't matter that Stanley wasn't there, that his bro-that _he_ wasn't worth the time of day, and all that progress had been ruined- shattered all because of a stupid word.

It mattered because he shouldn't have been missing Stanley, and yet he was. Under the layers of betrayal and pain, anger and denial, Stanford could feel the ache in his chest that Stanley used to occupy. He knew he shouldn't have felt that way, because he was completely justified in being mad at Stanley, who had crossed a line and ruined everything, yet still Ford couldn't make it go away.

He'd been doing his best to ignore it, occupying himself at any given moment to distract from the hole that had begun to widen as the day had dragged on and the weight of what had happened truly sunk in.

He still couldn't understand why Stanley had done it. What purpose could there have possibly been in destroying his future? He'd had to have known he wouldn't have been thanked for it. He had to have known how idiotic he'd been. How… just…

Ford shook his head roughly and climbed off the top bunk of the bed they had yet to take apart. It didn't matter! It didn't have to make sense. The point was that Stanley had done it, and now he was gone. He'd screwed over not only Ford, but the rest of the family as well, and unless he proved his worth to their father… well.

Picking up the discarded book, Ford went and sat at their desk- _his_ desk. His. He flipped the cover open, letting his eyes briefly roam over the pages before slamming it closed again when the lines of text blurred together to form incoherent blobs of black and white. It was useless to try and read at that point, he knew. He couldn't focus on anything other than the uncomfortable churning in his gut that seemed to make his anger burn so fiercely it could rival the sun.

Stupid Stanley. Stupid, foolish idiotic moron!

Something warm and wet hit his hand and Ford glared down at the spot before wiping his sleeve across his eyes. When that seemed to only encourage the tears to flow harder the teen growled in frustration. This was ridiculous! He didn't want to cry! He wasn't sad, he was angry!

He was angry because he didn't want to care. He was angry because his heart hurt and he didn't know what to do. He was angry because he'd lost two incredibly important things within the same day, one which he would never get back, and the other he didn't even know whether or not he wanted back. He couldn't forgive Stanley for what he'd done, but at the same time he couldn't be like Pa and pretend he'd never existed. That was what made him more angry than anything.

It wasn't fair! He'd finally had the chance to get out and make something of himself, and without any effort, Stanley had taken that away because… because… he didn't know, but it didn't really matter.

But, he'd only ever loved and supported him, and until yesterday he'd always thought Stanley reciprocated the sentiment. Ford shouldn't have cared about Stanley one way or the other anymore, but he did, at least enough to miss him, and that's what it boiled down to.

"Dammit!" Ford hissed past the small sobs wracking his body and making it hard the breathe. He was thankful it was at least late enough in the night that he knew his parents would be asleep and wouldn't stumble upon him, but wished more than anything he knew how to stop the frankly pathetic display.

How could something as simple as an accidental whisper of "goodnight" turn him into such a mess?

* * *

He's all too aware of the word coming out of his mouth the first time he says it after "The Fuckup". It hurts more than he anticipates it would, but otherwise, it has about the effect he expected it to.

Stanley dropped his head against the steering wheel, startling when the horn sounded in response before settling once more. He'd been sitting there in his car for what had to have been hours, listening the waves beat against the sand and waiting for something he knew was never coming

Stanford wouldn't be going anywhere near the beach or Stan'O'War if there was the slightest chance he might run into him; he knew his brother better than anyone else and even if he eventually stopped being mad at him, there was no way he would come to him first. When they were younger, the case would have been entirely different.

But then, when they were little, he wouldn't have done something so incredibly stupid to make Stanford hate him.

The thought sent a painful jolt through him and Stan groaned, closing his eyes tightly against the the sudden onslaught of voices that screamed at him, reminding him of just how badly he'd screwed things up. Reminding him that he had nobody but himself to blame for Ford's hate.

He wasn't sure how long his brother would be hating him, but he could only hope it wouldn't be forever. Though, if it was, Stanley wasn't sure he could blame him. He'd… well, he'd ruined things for him, hadn't he? Thinking he'd ever go through with their plan to sail around the world on a boat really had been his stupid mistake.

Because of course Ford would want to go bigger. He always pushed the limits with smart people things, he supposed it shouldn't have come as a shock to find out he'd wanted to ditch the Stan'O'War in order to go to West Coast whatever. But the fact that their lifelong dream had turned into a backup plan for his brother in less than a day… it had hurt. It still hurt.

And it hadn't just been the dream that Ford had turned away. No, by admitting that he'd wanted to go to that fancy college, he'd agreed with everyone who had ever told Stan he was nothing and going nowhere. He was agreeing with the principle's saying that their parents had at least one kid going somewhere. All the times his brother had ever told him he was just as equally smart, had just as bright a future ahead of him, had been erased when Ford had said if all else failed he'd "do the treasure hunting thing".

He hadn't just abandoned the dream, he'd abandoned Stanley.

Bumping his head roughly against the wheel once more, Stanley sniffled and thought back to everything that had happened the night before. He'd really thought Ford's little gizmo would be fine. Sure, there had a small, selfish part of him that hoped it might not work, or that the college people wouldn't like it, but it was a part that was drowned out by his desire for Ford to be happy.

He hadn't wanted his brother to leave, but he'd already decided that if it meant Stanford feeling special in a place where he felt he belonged, he wouldn't keep him from it. He'd fully expected his brother to come home that night with a grin on his face and a story about how much the guys loved his work.

He hadn't realized he'd actually broken the machine.

He hadn't realized what that would mean for Stanford.

He hadn't realized something so seemingly small would completely destroy their relationship. If he had, he would've done something! He would've called Ford and told him about the machine losing a few screws so he could fix it. He would've done something, _anything_ , to ensure that they would be okay.

But, would-haves weren't going to make anything better now. It had happened, and unless time machines were going to be a thing in the near future, it wasn't something he could fix. That didn't mean he didn't want to fix it. Oh, he wanted to fix it more than he'd ever wanted anything before, but Stan knew if he came within a foot of the house, he'd have to get through Pa… yeah, that wasn't gonna happen.

He knew he could go to school and try to talk to Ford then, but… the idea was terrifying. Ford would surely reject him, pretend he wasn't there, because when his brother was angry, he was cold and distant, and… well, Stanley couldn't say he would stay calm in the face of that dismissive behavior.

No, he didn't want to see someone who would pretend he didn't exists. If there was ever something that would hurt more than being kicked out of the house by an upset and indifferent parent, it was that. He didn't need to see how much Ford was trying to pretend he didn't care.

(He didn't want to find out that Stanford really didn't care)

Stanley sniffled again, opening his eyes to glare at his lap when the tears he should have felt refused to form. It had been like that all day.

He'd cried so much the night before, he wasn't sure he would shed a tear again for some time. He felt like he needed to -felt it so keenly it almost hurt- yet nothing but ragged gasps would be allowed to be pulled from him. The tightness in his chest persisted, the shaking in his hands grew increasingly worse, and he felt like he might as well curl up under the docks and die, yet he couldn't cry.

Stanley dragged himself upright, looking past the windshield at the moon and stars hanging over the water. They seemed duller than usual and he wasn't sure if that was because of his own mood warping perception or clouds. It didn't matter either way; Stanley enjoyed stargazing but Ford was the one who cared about astronomy.

Maybe he'd been looking at the sky earlier, thinking the same things. Maybe he hadn't been. Maybe he hadn't looked yet but would.

Stanley hoped he would- not that hoping had done much in the past. He hoped that when his brother saw the stars, he would think of him, if only briefly, and would somehow hear his softly spoken "goodnight".


	2. I Continue To Make Them

**A/N: _So yep, looks like this is getting updated about every two weeks. Let's hope I can keep to this schedule. Hope you all like it. :)_**

* * *

 **I Continue to Make Them**

The second time he says it, he wishes he hadn't. He hates the way it comes out, the way it makes him sound so bitter and resentful, but he can't seem to find a reason to think himself wrong for it.

Stanley tried with all his might to keep them from kicking him out, he really had. He'd hidden in the bathroom, he'd stolen extra money in an attempt to pay them off, and had even offered to do things he didn't want to, or know how to, do. All of it ended up in vain, though, and they had thrown back onto the streets with little sympathy.

The people of Pennsylvania sure were tough. Not as tough as the New Jersey natives, but still harsh enough to have no problem with making an eighteen-year-old sleep in his car in the middle of a particularly chilly September.

Gathering his bag from where it'd been thrown to the ground, Stanley huffed and made his way back to the StanleyMobile. He ignored the fact that he could almost see each puff of breath that came from his mouth, but couldn't so easily brush aside the cold that had already begun seeping into his skin like a poison, leaching away the last reserves of warmth he'd managed to find himself. Not even the jacket he'd recently acquired could protect him at that point, which added the promise of a harsh winter to his growing "reasons staying in Pennsylvania is a bad idea" list.

He knew he just needed to toughen up, get used to it because with colder weather coming down the pike he would be getting a lot more miserable; if he still had nowhere to stay the car would be the warmest place for him.

He knew he was being wimpy- a drama queen, really, when he thought about it. After all, there were people who had to deal with the same crap he did. Some of them even had it worse. Probably. Yeah, there were people who didn't have cars.

Still, how many of those people had been kicked out of their house and then banned from their home state in less than a year? He'd yet to run into any with that issue. But then, he did try to avoid anyone who looked remotely homeless. The last thing he needed was someone even more desperate than he was threatening to gut him if he didn't give them the few possessions he had.

Thankfully, it wasn't hard; all he had to do was keep away from anyone that looked anything like him.

Yet the fact that he even had to worry about stuff like that was almost as pathetic as his upset over being cold. At his age he should've been having to worry about so much less- like what college, if any, he was going to, or something equally mundane. But nope, instead he was stuck out here, having to deal with the type of crap he wouldn't have had to if he was still at home.

He wished that just once he could find a place to spend the night that was comfier than the small confines of his vehicle; that just once he could sleep properly because he felt safe. But no, that was never in the cards for him. Why would someone like him ever be allowed to have the smallest amounts of comfort- wasn't like he deserved even one night's rest. That was just the price to pay for what he'd done.

Though, how much was he supposed to expect to pay? And for how long?

Stanley would bet the last five dollars he had in his pocket that Stanford wasn't experiencing any sort of discomfort similar to his. In fact, he was sure his brother was settled into his bed wherever he was, not even thinking about whether or not he was okay. He bet Ford wasn't worried about him in the slightest.

He'd thought for the first two weeks that it would blow over, that his twin would realize letting Filbrick kick him out had been a mistake, that maybe he'd reach out, encourage him to come home, because nothing as silly as a fight over an accident could destroy their bond. Then he hadn't, and Stanley had realized just how serious it had all been for Stanford. After that he had hoped that Ford would perhaps see him on one of his ads for the Shammies and contact him through that… he hadn't. And once he'd been run out of New Jersey without a word from his brother he'd started losing hope that Ford would ever contact him.

He'd called Ma the month before and asked about how things were going. She'd told him that Ford had graduated. He'd been valedictorian. Stan hadn't been surprised to hear that. He'd gone off to college, but when he'd asked, she hadn't said which one. He could understand that decision; if he'd known where his brother was, Stanley couldn't be certain he'd have been able to stay away.

Not that he should've been eager to run to Stanford's side. Because… it wasn't like his brother was making any attempts to go after him. Ford had abandoned him. He'd completely cut him off from his life over one stupid accident that cost him a school. A fucking school. Honestly, the more he thought about it, the more ridiculous it sounded and the angrier he got.

He was out on his own, miserable, lonely, and having to fight for scraps of food in order to survive, and where was Ford? Worrying about him? Feeling bad for letting Filbrick get rid of him? Looking for him? Nope! He was off at some other college enjoying himself and working towards making his life better, because of course he'd had other options lined up. He was Stanford Pines, genius extraordinaire!

Ford's life hadn't changed in the slightest, meanwhile his had turned to shit. Because of his brother. His brother, who still had family, still had a home to go back to if things didn't work out for him -which, yeah right- and who more than likely had other friends by now. He still had things to look forward to, and live for.

The only thing Stan ever had to look forward to was a decent meal. And money was all he could really afford to live for; if he didn't have money, he was no better than the rest of the scum of the streets.

It was hard to feel bad for messing up when he knew his brother was still alright. It was hard to feel remorse when Ford was still continuing on as if nothing wrong had happened, while Stanley couldn't get a room for one night in the crappiest motel because he was broke.

He threw his bag into the passenger seat and locked the car doors as he sat, reclining the seat back as far as it would go. He wasn't even certain he'd be allowed to stay in the lot for the night, but he'd take what he could get, and if the staff didn't notice and left him be, that was just fine too.

Sure, his situation could have been worse, but it also sure as hell could have been better. So when the brunet settled in the seat, curling in on himself to preserve body heat, he found himself glaring at the roof, his bitter mumble going unheard by everyone save himself.

"Goodnight, Stanford."

* * *

The second time he says it, it's an accident, a slip of the tongue, and it shouldn't be a big deal. He wants to punch himself in the face for it.

Stanford had been at Backupsmore for a week, getting used to the routines of the school and throwing himself into his classwork. He'd been so focused for many reasons, the main being his desire to graduate as soon as possible. The less time he spent there, the better.

"Mostly bug-free dorms" his ass.

Although, while the dorms themselves were less than desirable, the company was quite a bit nicer: Fiddleford Hadron Mcgucket. The name was a mouthful so he'd let Ford know it was alright to call him whatever he saw fit. Ford had decided upon just calling him by his full first name; he could struggle to the end, it wasn't an issue.

Upon first introduction, Ford had seen Fiddleford as one of the strangest people he'd ever met. The interesting accent and ability to talk a mile a minute about nothing much at all had been the more prominent of features Ford had taken note of -excluding the nose, of course… not that he was one to talk. To say the least, the first few days around the young man had been awkward.

He'd acknowledged the other's existence, he'd been polite and he'd made it clear that he wasn't really looking for friendship, but it seemed the southerner hadn't gotten the clue. Every time he'd walked into the room Fiddleford had readily offered a smile and asked him how things were going. He was so damn nice, and Ford had found himself quickly relaxing around him despite his best efforts to keep a distance.

For some reason he felt at ease around the other man. It was as if they'd known each other for years instead of less than a month. He didn't know why that was, and he refused to give the voice in his head that told him exactly why it was so easy the satisfaction of listening.

Because Fiddleford was nothing like Stanley.

Fiddleford was kind, and caring, and he actually gave a damn about what he had to say. He didn't call him a "nerd-robot" when Ford went on his long tirades about specific, less-than-normal interests, and he certainly didn't interrupt him when he was talking. Fiddleford was a kindred spirit; he understood what it was like to be the smartest person in the room. He understood how lonely that could be. He understood that it made making friends difficult as a child, which contributed to why he acted the way he did around people now. He just… he understood in ways Stanley never had.

So no, Fiddleford was nothing like Stanley.

Fiddleford wasn't selfish and he didn't wreck things.

"Ya alright there, buddy?"

Ford looked up from the textbook he'd had his nose stuck in, tilting his head when he looked at Fiddleford. "Huh?"

"Well, ya just looked upset there. Was just wonderin' what's on yur mind." The southerner shrugged, his blue eyes flashing with concern that, for once, Ford didn't appreciate.

He sighed heavily and shook his head in response. "It's nothing. I think I might be tired."

"Makes sense," Fiddleford chuckled, "ya'll've been readin' for three hours straight."

"Mm," Ford hummed in agreement but made no move to get up. In fact, he went back to his book. He could see the disapproving look his friend was sending him out of the corner of his eye but feigned ignorance, because while it was true he'd grown tired, he didn't want to sleep just yet. He hadn't managed to cover nearly as much material as he'd meant to; his jumbled Stanley-centric thoughts had distracted him.

Stupid Stanley. Even when he wasn't near he was making life difficult for him.

"Stanford?"

Ford ignored the hesitant prod, frowning as he tried harder to focus on the words on the paper. It proved difficult when his eyes started burning as the fatigue truly set in, but he refused to just give in to something so simple as mild ocular discomfort.

However, it seemed he wasn't having any of it, because a moment later Ford had to jerk his head back to avoid the hand that shot into his line of sight in order to snap the book shut.

"Bed, Stanford. Now."

He could've laughed at his friend's attempt to sound forceful, but knew that would do more harm than good. Even if he couldn't sound very intimidating, he had a way of making Ford feel bad about not doing things in the same way Ma could, with a small disapproving glance and the slightest chide in the tone of voice.

Well, seeing as there would be no use arguing, he supposed if he wouldn't be allowed to study bed did sound like a good idea.

Ford didn't bother changing into his pajamas before flopping into bed. It would take too long to do so when it was already so late, and he didn't have class until closer to the evening hours the next day so appearance during the day wouldn't matter. Besides, he'd already pulled too many all-nighters.

Fiddleford laughed at him and muttered about how he was a lovable dork or something equally as fond and insulting, and proceeded to flip the light off and get into his own bed.

"G'night, Stanford."

"Goodnight, Stanley."

There was a beat of silence as Ford laid there, frozen in shock over what he'd said. He definitely had not meant to say that. It had only come out as a mumble, though, so maybe Fiddleford hadn't heard?

The silence was broken a second later by his roommate's soft voice. Ford wanted to curl up and die.

"Who?"

The question hung in the air like smoke, thick and heavy. The unsaid answer left a brackish taste in Ford's mouth and he felt as if he would choke on it. He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't meant to ever mention Stanley's name around Fiddleford. He was supposed to remain a secret- a nothing in the back of the mind where he belonged.

Suddenly, he no longer felt tired, but suffocated.

He had to get out- get some fresh air before the bile in the back of his throat could make any attempts at freeing itself.

Ford got up abruptly, groping in the darkness a moment before swiping his room key from where he'd remembered leaving it on their shared desk. He didn't bother with grabbing his shoes only because he knew finding them in the dark would not be an easy task and he didn't want to turn on the light and bother his friend.

"Ford?"

Oh, right, he hadn't said anything.

"It's, ah, it's nothing," he stammered as he found his way through the black and gripped the doorknob. "I'm going, uh, for a walk. Don't wait up for me."

"Wait, Stanfo-"

He closed the door behind him a bit harder than necessary, not wanting to hear the apologetic tone his friend's voice had taken. It wasn't Fiddleford's fault, so he shouldn't have felt the need to give an apology. He hadn't known. He still didn't know. He never would know, because he wasn't supposed to. Nobody was supposed to.

Stanley's name was a stain on their family. All he'd ever been was a lazy cheat who used people to get places. Nobody outside of their town needed to know about him. Nobody.

The likelihood of Fiddleford letting it go, though, was slim to none. He knew he would have to come up with a convincing lie to tell for when the man asked again. Either that, or he'd have tell the truth…

Yeah right. Oh, if Filbrick could only hear that thought. As if he'd ever want anyone telling the truth about Stanley. It was funny, he acted as if doing so would paint a negative light on him as the parent, when it was easy to see how Stanley had brought it upon himself.

Still, Fiddleford would ask. He'd asked because Ford screwed up. Big time.

Stanford leaned back against the wall of the hallway while releasing a heavy sigh. He was aware of the reasons he'd said Stanley's name instead of Fiddleford's, but it was still… frustrating. He knew it had only been a slip-up, a mistake born of the repetition over the length of his childhood. After all, he has never said goodnight to his roommate before and the only other person he'd said it to up to that point had been Stanley, so it wasn't a huge surprise that that's the name that had come out. It had been nothing more than a habitual accident and nothing more. It hadn't meant anything.

He released a shaky breath, relaxing his neck back until his skull thudded dully against the spackled drywall. It was interesting how, even knowing all of that, it still felt as if a rusty rail spike had been shoved between his ribs.


	3. The Promises I've Made

**A/N: _Hey all, sorry for the late as balls update. I have a great excuse though! My mom had a sudden cardiac arrest (not to be confused with a heart attack, because her heart/arteries/veins/etc are perfectly clear and healthy) due to stress in my arms and my brother and I had to do CPR. Long story short we kept her alive, the cardiologist said she died but they brought her back and without us she would've died, etcetera etcetera (it feels melodramatic and surreal to say that still…). Anyway, spent 10 days in the hospital with her and by the grace of God alone she is 100% there mentally still (surprised the crap outta the cardiologist. Keeps saying he can't believe she's alive) and everything, and she's out and okay now, but I've been having to do a lot of the caring for her as she continues to recover (she's on medication and has a monitoring device, and isn't allowed to drive so she's been my Miss Daisy, lol). So between that, work (and the addition of a second job), school, and the overall stress and anxiety THAT'S caused, ya'll can probably understand why I haven't been keeping up with the content like promised._**

 _ **Sorry if this is overshare… that's just how I am... I don't know how to not word-vomit. Anyway, you can probably guess what my next words will be: I'm not gonna stop writing but updates are going to be sporadic and considerably slower than they might have otherwise been. Sorry 'bout that.**_

 _ **Now, I believe that was all I had to say, so without further ado, I bid you all a good read.**_

 **WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER:** _ **Depictions of injury and blood**_

* * *

 **The Promises I've Made**

The third time he says it he's lonely and knows exactly what he's saying. It's deliberate and born of the need feel like someone, anyone, is there with him.

Ford sighed heavily as he got up from his seat by the lakeside. He'd been there for hours, attempting to observe the various creatures near and in the waters before finally giving up to simply stew in the melancholy that settled over him.

Two years. That was how long it had been since he'd graduated from college and how long he'd been living in Gravity Falls, learning all there was to know about the anomalies residing there. To say his findings had been endlessly abundant and amazing would have been an understatement. He'd almost completed filling an entire journal with his findings and already had been collecting information for a second one for when that was finished. He couldn't have been happier with his research; it was all he'd ever dreamed of doing.

Yet… there was a distinct feeling that something was still missing.

The first year Ford hadn't a clue what that something could have been, but as time had passed and he found himself continually drawn back to the lake, he'd remembered. Remembered what he'd managed to put into the back of his mind for years upon years.

Or rather, _who_ he'd managed to put in the back of his mind.

It felt wrong to even think about it at that point; the need to drive him out of memory had become so strong it was instinct to shrink away from the thought of him. Filbrick would have told him to suck it up and let go already, because it had been over half a decade and he shouldn't have been on Ford's mind anymore. But then, Ford had stopped truly giving a damn about what Filbrick thought a long time ago. In the grand scheme of things, what did his opinion matter?

So what if he thought about Stanley? It wouldn't hurt anyone, just thinking his name. It wasn't like his brother could cause any harm by just being on someone's mind. As if to prove the point to himself Ford halted his pacing in the sand and closed his eyes.

 _Stanley, Stanley, Stanley._

He opened them once more and released a shaky breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. There. That was that. Just like nothing had happened after the Bloody Mary ritual he'd been pressured into doing his first year in college, nothing happened then either. The sky didn't come crashing down nor did the waves lazily lapping at his boots swallow him whole.

It was just a name after all. The memories attached didn't have to mean anything if he didn't want them to. Because Stanley didn't actually have to mean anything to him. Stanley was just a name.

Ford ignored the ache that bloomed in his chest following those thoughts. He had no reason to feel anything akin to pain when thinking about Stanley. It was no more than a coincidence and deserved none of his attention. Stanley had been nothing more than a nuisance in his life- just another person who'd held him back. Just another thing that sucked the life out of him. Suffocated him.

And yet… he couldn't deny that what he felt missing was...

Ford shook his head. Missing companionship and missing Stanley were two separate things that had nothing to do with each other.

Knowing that didn't ease the loneliness that seemed determined to persist.

"Agh." Shoving the journal roughly into his coat, Ford turned to head home. He'd had about enough of the scenery that reminded him so keenly of his childhood. He'd been visiting more often than normal and while it helped alleviate some of the gloominess constantly following him, it also attributed to his Stanley-centric thoughts. He decided it was time to cease his ventures down there for awhile. Perhaps then his turbulent thoughts would leave him be.

It wasn't helpful, thinking about Stanley. All it did was serve to upset him to the point it was difficult to focus on his research. He'd never change anything in the scientific community and earn his place among the greats if he continued letting himself be distracted.

Ford forced himself to pay close attention to the details in the nature around as he walked, wanting nothing more than to start thinking of something other than beaches and boats and familiar brown eyes filled with a foolishly childish dream.

It didn't exactly work, but he managed to make it back inside the house without delving into the frustrating mixture of emotions revolving around the sibling he would rather not think about. It was so easy to get lost in those thoughts, those questions of "where is he?" and "what is he doing?"... and "is he alright?". Not that he cared, of course. Those were just things that went through his head because they were the basic inquiries- the things everyone asked in regards to people they hadn't seen in awhile.

It was just standard wondering.

Ford shrugged his coat off, hanging it on the life size skeleton model he'd gotten several months back, and contemplated heading upstairs to sleep before shaking his head and going into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. He could go another couple of hours before fatigue made him collapse completely, and he'd been meaning to finish rereading one of his books on astrophysics. He'd recently started testing to see if he could apply those sciences to the mysteries of Gravity Falls.

After a few minutes of digging through the mess that was the counter he found the coffee machine and got a pot started. The duration of the brewing was spent looking for the specific cover belonging to his favored textbook, which admittedly, would have been faster if he'd actually had the mind to clean once in awhile. It was so unfortunate he hadn't anyone with him around the house who would remember to tidy up here and there, or at the very least, yell at him to pick up after himself. Yes, that seemed the likelier scenario.

Once locating the book, Ford poured himself a cup of coffee in one of his only clean mugs, smiling a bit in amusement at the molecular design printed onto the ceramic. Fiddleford had always hinted at how much he loved that particular one and Ford remembered how he'd rolled his eyes and told him they could be found at retail shops if he wanted one so badly.

Stanley would have teased him about how "nerdy" it was.

Ford opened the book with probably more force than necessary, effectively banishing that thought from his mind, and took a sip of the still-too-hot black liquid, ignoring the way it burned his tongue. It was funny- he never would have thought he'd prefer it black one day, but there he was, taking it as it naturally came and wondering how he ever could have thought putting cream into it was a good idea. It was just such a hassle to stick extra things into a mixture in order to dilute the taste and strength; if you couldn't drink it how it was supposed to be drank, why do it at all?

The small voice in the back of his head mentioned how Stanley probably still put copious amounts of sugar into his coffee. Ford chose to ignore it and plunged into the pages of his book, much preferring the company of theories and nebulae and astral planes over his own confusing thoughts. Though, admittedly, in that moment he would have preferred live company to the written word.

Ford sat there reading until the coffee was long gone and the text he read blurred into incomprehensible smears. His eyelids drooped to the point he could see stars dance in his vision, as if lifted from the pages or dragged straight from space. He acknowledged that the intelligent thing to do then would be to go upstairs and sleep in a position that wouldn't give him a sore neck, but the idea of moving right then appealed to Ford about as much as jumping into a black hole might appeal to any normal person.

Going upstairs would mean waking his body from where it had settled so comfortably over the table, and trudging through the depressingly empty halls of his suddenly too big home. It would mean risking waking himself up enough that sleep would come with difficulty, and after being awake for over 48 hours, that was not something he wanted to run the possibility of. It would mean having to wonder why it was so cold inside despite the heater working fine, and sighing sadly as he stared at the one of the many phones lying around, contemplating calling Ma or Fiddleford in order to create the illusion that he wasn't alone.

No, where he was would be fine. He'd deal with whatever body pains came as a result like he did all other pain: Ignore it until it went away. That method had been working for him up to that point in his life and he didn't see any reason that would need to change. If it wasn't broke, why fix it?

Still, as he let his eyes drift close Ford felt the persistent ache in his chest return to pulse in time with his heart and he couldn't ignore how badly it hurt no matter how desperately he tried. For so long he'd thought being on his own would make him feel free and at peace, and while that had been the case for the first year, it had lost its allure. It was hard to enjoy being on his own when he knew he was… really on his own. He had no family close by, and his only friend was a state over. He'd always had someone by his side, whether they were related or simply well acquainted, he'd never truly been by himself.

And now he was.

Now, he had nobody to harass if he was bored or missing human interaction. Sure, the town was filled with people, but to them, he was a mystery, and if he was being perfectly honest, Ford wanted to keep it that way. He was there to research, not make friendly with the locals. And even if the landlines in the town worked, he'd always found it difficult to talk long over the phone; he didn't have the patience nor the energy to keep a conversation going that long. Besides, sometimes it wasn't even about the talking, but the companionship- the knowledge that even when nothing was being said, someone was there, ready to listen.

He missed that… always having someone right by his side.

Oh hell, as loath as he was to admit it, he missed Stanley.

There. There, he'd thought it to himself and the world hadn't ended. There was nothing wrong with admitting something to oneself when it wasn't spoken… not that there was anyone around to hear in the first place if he had said anything.

Ford sighed, the sound warping into more of a groan given his near passed out state, and tucked his arms under his head. When his glasses dug into the bridge of his nose he grunted and shifted to remove some of the pressure. He didn't bothering to take them off, despite knowing he'd have sore indents in his face when he woke if he didn't. He couldn't muster the energy. Funnily enough, on his own he rarely took them off; it was something Ma used to do for him when he forgot, before Stanley had taken over for her. Fiddleford had done it a few times, but the gesture hadn't stuck because he'd always rolled his eyes at the man when he did it.

He did miss Stanley. It was frustrating, too, because he didn't exactly want to miss him. He just… did. There was no rhyme or reason to it. There was just something missing in his life and finally realize and accepted that it was, in fact, Stanley. He wasn't going to do anything about it, but at least he had isolated the problem and understood where it stemmed from.

Releasing another small groan, Ford forced his mind blank. He'd had enough of thinking about it. He'd solved the mystery and now he could move on- or rather, sleep.

Even so, he still found himself muttering it lazily under his breath. It tasted like defeat, but it alleviated some of the discomfort he felt and certainly did make him feel, if just for a moment, that he wasn't completely alone.

"G'night."

* * *

The third time he says it he's delirious, in pain, and thinks it's the last time he ever will.

Stanley couldn't have been certain as to how he'd gotten into the situation, but he'd already decided whatever it had been, it had not warranted the response it got. Then again, it may have been nothing at all that he'd done in that moment, and more having been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

All he'd spent that night doing was sitting in a bar in the backwater town named... he couldn't remember, to clean out the pockets of a few unsuspecting idiots. Granted, when he thought about it, that didn't sound very nice and he'd probably had some type of beat-down waiting for him already. The one he'd gotten had seemed excessive even then, though, but then, considering who'd it been, he shouldn't have expected anything less. In all honesty, the last thing he'd expected was to run into some of Rico's boys where he'd been, in the middle of nowhere. In fact, he'd sort of been counting on the safety the remote area would provide.

It was funny how little he remembered of the actual incident too. He blamed, and would continue to blame, the couple drinks he'd had for that. He'd allowed himself to get too comfortable, surrounded by the rednecks that had practically been handing him their money on a silver platter, that he hadn't even noticed when the familiar faces had walked in.

The next thing he recalled was being dragged out of the bar, shouting profanities and throwing punches the whole time, before somebody had cracked him over the back of the head with a bottle. It wasn't until his head stopped spinning and he found his movements restricted as he lay in the trunk of a car that he'd understood he was in deep shit. And of course by then it was far too late.

He'd been bound, gagged, and apparently stabbed- something he hadn't even noticed until much later during his escape, but seemed then like it should have been the clearest detail of all, considering how badly it hurt.

Just thinking about it made the injury sting worse and Stanley curled in on himself further, leaning heavily on the nearest tree in an effort to remain upright. He couldn't believe how badly something so small could hurt and vowed to snag a bigger pocket knife of his own for protection when he got out of the mess he was in. If he got out…

Stanley shook his head and pressed his uninjured hand tighter against his bleeding side. Why they'd felt the need to stab him when he'd gone down so easily continued to be a mystery in his mind. However, he knew well enough to not worry about their motives while he was so badly roughed up. On top of the knife wound, he was pretty sure one or more layers of skin had been scraped from his shoulder and head, and said shoulder was likely dislocated- same as his thumb, and while half his mouth had gone numb with pain awhile back, he could feel with his swollen tongue that he'd knocked out at least two teeth and left three more loose. He was also almost certain he had a concussion, but in the grand scheme of things, that was minor.

He couldn't believe he'd actually managed to chew his way out of the trunk of a car. He hadn't been sure if it was even possible before he'd started, but he'd been desperate. He'd dislocated one of his thumbs getting out of the handcuffs, which thankfully was something he'd done more than once and had down to a science, and that had left him with one good hand and not much else to work with except his teeth. Admittedly, not his brightest move, but he'd been panicked and at a loss as to what else to do, so it had seemed to most logical of choices. Maybe it had been. Either way, he'd done it and he was glad he had. Sure, the torn up gums didn't feel too great and the missing teeth would be something to get used to, but he'd done what he had to.

The more he thought about it the more he felt like laughing because… chewing out of a car. Who would've thought that could actually work?

Thinking back on it, the only mistake Stanley could see having made was not taking into account the exact speed the car had been going. Disoriented and frantic as he'd been, he hadn't noticed how fast they'd been traveling when he'd thrown himself from the vehicle. It was a wonder, and had shocked him to no end then -still did as he thought about it- that he'd survived at all.

Stanley was thankful that he'd been lucky enough to not become just another piece of roadkill. That would have been a truly humiliating and pathetic way to go.

Not that he could see his current predicament as much less pathetic. Tired, cold, bleeding out on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere… all he could say was at least he wouldn't be tortured. Still, it was almost anticlimactic, this. It was not at all how he imagined himself biting the big one. He'd thought about it a lot, too. He'd been stuck on either a fiery car crash or the more likely scenario, catching some weird disease and fading into nothing. Not this.

And, sad as it was, Stanley had no doubt that was where he was in life. His vision had grown blurry and his muscles weak- at some point he'd fallen to his knees, the tree trunk a useless support. His side had gone numb and so had most of his face and… he was going to die. That was what it came down to.

He almost felt like laughing again at how tragically appropriate that was. He'd survived countless close calls, been a damn drug mule and gotten out alive, slipped into the outer ranks of the mafia for a time before managing to escape, and he'd gotten out of prison not once, but twice. He'd gone through more hardships than anyone he knew… and this was how he'd be going out? What was that saying? Not with a bang, but a whimper.

He'd always hated that saying- or poem, or whatever. He'd never understood it completely, but he'd never liked the sound of it.

Ford had. He'd thought the thing a masterpiece and had always gotten chills on that line. He'd tried to explain it to him at one point, too, but Stan hadn't wanted to listen. It had been complicated and woefully tragic, and not at all something that interested him.

He regretted not listening; right then, he would've given anything for Ford to be there, even if it meant sitting through a long winded explanation about why a dumb poem was actually genius in disguise. If it meant Ford just _being there_ he would have listened intently, soaked up every word tumbling from his brother's mouth. Who knows, with that babbling in his ear, death might not have seemed like such a bad thing.

But it was. And the worst part was nobody was there. Maybe if he had just one person there to care about what happened, it wouldn't be so scary. But he didn't want to die alone.

Hell, he didn't want to die at all. He wanted to tell himself to quit being such a bitch about it and get up, because he wasn't hurt as bad as he thought. He just needed to man up was all.

But try as he might to get to his feet, he couldn't; his limbs felt like lead weights had been strapped to them and his head felt like it was filled with cotton. He couldn't have moved if he wanted to. He shouldn't have allowed himself to sit down, that much Stanley knew, and he hated himself for doing so. Taking a break when his body was that damaged was asking for something bad. It seemed even in the most dire moments he couldn't do anything right.

What was awful about it all was that if he retraced his steps, he could tell exactly where he'd gone wrong. If he'd never stayed so long at that bar- actually, if he'd never gotten mixed up with Rico in the first place, he never would have been in that situation. And he never would have met Rico if he hadn't punched that cop, and he wouldn't have punched that cop if he'd actually gotten to rest a little the night before… and he would have gotten rest if he'd been less paranoid about people trying to break into his car and kill him in his sleep.

But no, it was so stupid when he thought about it like that. He would die, if not right then, in a few minutes, and he'd have nobody to blame but himself for everything that had led up to it. He didn't have the energy to put up the argument that if he'd never been kicked out of the house he wouldn't have been in that situation. It didn't matter in the long run. It had been so long since that had happened anyway, and he was to blame for that too, if he was going to be honest with himself.

It didn't matter whose fault it was though, he would still be going out exactly like that dumb poem line. Not with a bang, but a whimper.

Yet it wasn't even that fact that pissed him off and frightened him so much as the knowledge that nobody would know what happened to him. He'd be written off as an accident- just someone who'd probably had it coming anyway. He'd die and nobody would care because he was just another homeless bum who the world would be better off without. Whoever eventually found him the next day would have no idea who he was- or better yet, nobody would find him for a long time and the animals and bugs would pick off of him until there wasn't enough of his body remaining to identify. That thought alone was enough to make him want to gag.

He'd be gone and no one would give two shits, because nobody important would know. Though, he doubted anyone, with the exception of Ma, would care. Didn't matter. It wasn't like he had his real identity anywhere on his body, and he'd memorized her new phone number long back, so there would be nothing letting people know who to call. She'd never find out what happened and spent the rest of her years wondering why he'd suddenly stopped contacting her.

Would she get worried enough to call Ford? Would Ford even care? Did Ford care now, where he was or what happened to him? If he'd known what had happened to him would he have come running to help or turned his back and left him to rot? Stan wished he could say he knew for sure.

That didn't matter either, though. Whether Ford might have come or not didn't matter. What he thought about him now didn't matter. What he would do if he ever found out didn't matter. Whether he cared or not didn't matter, because it wasn't like he was ever going to find out. By the time anyone found out he'd died by himself, shivering and afraid and wishing for someone to come save him, it'd be long too late.

Nonetheless he wished, no matter how unrealistic, that for one minute his brother could be there by his side to at least make him feel less helpless and pitiful. Less alone. He wanted it like when they were kids and he'd wake from a nightmare with Ford there by his side, telling him it was alright, that he'd be okay because he was there and it was only a bad dream.

Oh, how he wished it was only a bad dream.

Stan slumped onto his uninjured side, wrapping shaking arms around his stomach in an attempt to retain the warmth he felt being sapped from him. The stinging in his head as it came into contact with the dirt barely registered for him as it was thrown into the mix of other aches and pains. All of that was unimportant anyway. He was too tired to care about the sorry state he was in, and even though his entire being screamed warnings at him to not sleep, he let his eyes fall shut. There was just no use prolonging the inevitable, no matter how much he wanted to.

When white light bloomed behind his eyes and voices began shouting in the distance, Stan whimpered and curled tighter on himself. He'd been holding out hope that Rico's guys wouldn't have noticed he was missing until later, when it was too late.

He wasn't a religious person by any stretch of the imagination any longer, but as those voices grew closer, Stanley prayed that wherever Stanford was, he was safe, and somehow heard him.

"N-night... Ford."

* * *

 **A/N: _My poor boys._** _ **Okay, so I know the "jumping out of a car when it's moving at higher speeds than 25mph and living" may seem unrealistic, but much research went into it on my part, and it turns out you can survive jumping out a vehicle at up to 65mph and survive, and if you do it right, you can get off with only minimal injury if you tuck and roll just right and have some decent clothing covering yourself. So yep.**_

 _ **Reviews are always appreciated, but not required. See ya'll next chapter.**_


	4. I Continue To Break Them

**A/N: _Yeah, this normally wouldn't be out so fast, as ya'll know, so say this with me: Thank God for pre-written shit! The last two chapters are almost done too, so look out for another one next Friday/Saturday!_**

* * *

 **I Continue To Break Them**

He nearly chokes on the words the fourth time he says it. He feels like he's been burned a second time and it leaves him gasping for air as resolve presses firmly upon his shoulders.

It felt like the floor had been pulled out from under his feet and he was left scrambling for answers when he couldn't even begin to understand the questions. All he had was a handwritten book on strange and dangerous beings he couldn't wrap his mind around and a possibly broken behemoth of some sort of portal that he had an even harder time comprehending.

All he had was the echoing voice of his brother screaming at him to do something.

That echo followed him every step he took, chasing him out of the basement and up the stairs. It kept sleep far from his grasp and made the searing pain in his shoulder harder to bear. He thought perhaps it would be smart to look at that wound but couldn't muster the desire to actually do it; it wasn't the most important thing to be focusing on. Hell, maybe it would get infected and kill him. He probably deserved the slow death something like that would promise.

Then again, if he died, Ford would stay stuck wherever he was inside the portal. Just the thought of that made Stanley haul himself off the couch and tuck his brother's journal under his arm as he made his way out of the room, back downstairs. If sleep would evade him, he might as well use the time to do something useful- something that would keep him distracted. It was better than laying there watching what had happened play over and over in his mind. The screams he could handle, but that…

Stan raked a hand through his hair and eyed the basement entrance a moment before turning around and heading into the kitchen to look for something to drink. He may not have been able to fall asleep but he was still exhausted, and it would probably be a good idea to get some caffeine in his system before working with potentially heavy machinery.

 _Ha!_ "Potentially". That thing was fucking huge and probably weighed a ton or two.

Thankfully, Ford proved to be a creature of habit and he was able to find coffee under a pile of papers by the sink. There wasn't much of it left, but considering how much his brother used to drink when they were young, Stan couldn't say he was surprised. There was enough left for another cup or two, and that was honestly all he could've hoped for.

When he thought about it, the major lack of the coffee he'd found could've helped to explain Ford's general jittery attitude the entire time they'd been interacting. He really had been acting like Ma after her tenth cup of the stuff, and maybe he actually hadn't been that far off from the truth of what had been going on with Ford in at least that respect. Everything else, though… Stan didn't know what had been going on there.

Why Stanford had been so jumpy and scared he couldn't have said. Sure, he knew what sort of things might have caused _him_ to look and act like that, but it was evident from the roof over his head and the expensive looking stuff lying around that Ford hadn't had that sort of life. Whatever had happened to make him like that was beyond his scope of speculation.

Ford had mentioned how he didn't understand what he'd been through… Stan wished he'd listened and found out what his brother had meant by that. If he hadn't interrupted him and just taken the crap he'd been spewing for a few more minutes, maybe Ford would have revealed why he was being such an asshole. But it had been a decade since he'd stood silently by while people talked to him like that, and he hadn't been about to go back that.

Maybe that was why Ford had seemed so shocked when he'd actually yelled back and called him out. He wasn't used to seeing him stand up for himself. But how could he have not expected him to after everything that had happened in the past? Had he really thought he'd have so great a life that he wouldn't have needed to learn to stop taking crap from people? When you grew up deflecting the insults and pain because you had somebody else to protect, it was easy to let everyone harass him when he'd had someone to be there for him afterwards; the second that had been taken away, he'd had to learn the hard way that you couldn't let anyone walk all over you.

And the question that wouldn't leave him alone, went hand in hand with the fact that his brother hadn't understood why he'd gotten upset at the mention of their plan to sail the world. Had Stanford seriously not expected the reaction he'd gotten after dangling their childhood dream in front of him and then promptly ripping it away? Ford had to have know how much that would hurt him.

And it had. It had hurt horribly. In fact it had rivaled the pain of having the curtains drawn on him as he reached up from where he stood outside his childhood home, hoping at least one person would stand up for him like he had so many times for them.

There could've been a better way to handle how he'd felt, though. He'd been too emotional, too angry and impulsive, just as he'd always been, and had ruined things for himself and his brother. Again. It had become a theme hadn't it?

Stan downed the last of his coffee and dropped the mug on the counter, jumping when the contact with the wooden surface rang louder than he'd expected it to. Taking a deep breath to calm his suddenly spiked heart rate, he couldn't help the short chuckle that escaped him. Damn nerves. That was all the skittishness was. It had nothing to do with the thoughts and memories running rampant through his head, refusing to leave him be. It had nothing to do with the fact that he was severely sleep deprived; between driving up and not taking breaks for rest, and the events of the night, if hadn't been his top priority. So yeah, it was only nerves. He just needed to distract himself.

"Right," he muttered as he stepped out of the room and headed towards the basement. He'd almost forgotten why he'd left the bedroom to begin with and that was no good. He needed to stay focused if he was going to figure things out and fix them. He'd have to worry about the why's and how's of everything that had happened some other time… when he had Ford back and could talk it over with him. Calmly.

… Well, rationally. Calm likely wouldn't be an option, especially then. Stanford would be beyond pissed about being sent through that weird portal contraption, even if he did end up in some cool place that he could study or collect or whatever it was he did. Stan refused to entertain the idea that his brother would be anywhere but a place he could be okay while he waited. He wouldn't think about it the alternative, no matter what.

That was what he told himself over and over each step he took until he was back in that room… back with that _thing_. After that, his thoughts, predictably, betrayed him.

The very second Stan let his gaze fall upon the triangular device, the reason behind the fight, the echoing scream he'd been able to ignore before became a tangible force that pressed against him from all sides. Ford's terrified face flashed in front of him as he stared at the gaping hole he'd disappeared into and Stan clenched his eyes shut to banish the vision.

Ford had said that the portal thing could somehow be used for some kind of destruction, hadn't he? And Stan remembered, when he'd pushed his brother and he'd started being pulled into the blue light… he'd been terrified. He would've known whether or not he'd need to be, considering he'd built the thing. He'd probably known what was beyond it. He'd probably already known where he'd been heading when he got pulled in… so maybe he'd been scared for a reason.

Ah hell, who was he to assume Stanford would be fine wherever he ended up? In the grand scheme of things, he was nothing but an idiot who'd ruined his brother's life, twice in a row now. The first time he'd payed for it by being forced away from his family… and this time he'd pay by having his family forced away from him.

It wasn't fair- and he had a _long_ list of things that weren't fair. He didn't think anything else could happen to ever beat this one, though. He'd lost his brother again, over another stupid fight, and this time, he didn't even know if he could hold hope of ever getting him back. And then, of course, there was the fear that even if he did get the device up and running again, there would be no Ford to get back.

He was no scientist, he had no clue where he would even begin to put things back together, and even if he did figure that one, he wouldn't be smart enough to understand how to do it. The only machine he knew how to fix was the StanleyMobile, and the only reason he even knew how to repair her was because he hadn't had a choice; not having a car would've been as good as being dead most days. He couldn't dare to hope that something so big and complicated looking could be patched up with rudimentary vehicle engine knowledge.

Stan stared down at the journal he still gripped tightly, remembering the page in the back informing him that he'd need another one of the books if he planned to understand and piece together anything. He hadn't the first clue where to look for the second one. He had to find it, he knew that much. He just didn't know where. Yet. But he was already aware that looking around while a snowstorm was in progress would be a fool's mission. Searching would have to be put off until a later date.

He couldn't do nothing, though. The longer he stared at that portal, the more the burn in his shoulder throbbed and his fingers itched for something to distract himself from it. He reminded himself that that was what he'd come down for in the first place. Even if he had no clue what to do, there was no way he could screw up the portal any further, so he would take a look around and see if there was anything he could remotely understand.

It would be better than flipping through that journal for the hundredth time, trying to wrap his mind around the frankly ridiculous and impossible things he saw. It would be better than standing around doing nothing at all.

So he worked. He flipped switches, pushed and pulled levers to no affect, ripped panels open to see if there was something remotely comprehensible inside. Every attempt to learn _something_ fell harder than the last until Stan eventually slammed his fists against the cold, unforgiving metal of the portal's frame. The action jarred his arms and sent another wave of hot pain down his back, but he grit his teeth, ignored it. He deserved it.

He hadn't expected himself to understand anything he saw, but he hadn't expected to have a heap more questions than when he'd started either. If he'd been born smarter, maybe it wouldn't have seemed so frustrating- or… maybe it all would've been simpler if it had been him to be pushed through. It certainly would've made a hell of a lot more sense. At least then the portal would've had a chance of being opened again. And even if Ford never got it working again, the world wouldn't be missing anyone important.

Stan slid to the floor and wrapped his arms around himself as he brought his knees up to his chest. It was all so crazy and confusing for him, and the idea of going on was beyond daunting. He had no intentions of giving up, but if he'd learned anything in his hours of rummaging around the tubes and wires and buttons and circuits, it was that there was no way he'd be able to get anything fixed within the next year.

He would have to find the other journals, that much was already clear, but more than that, he'd have to learn. He'd have to learn how to operate everything, so that when the day came that the portal was fixed, he'd have the knowledge to make it work. He'd also have to brush up on his cryptography if the weird scribbles of random, incomprehensible streams of letters on some of the journal's pages were meant to be important.

But first, as much as he hated to admit it, he'd need to sleep. Already his eyes had begun to feel crusted over, his eyelids drooping lazily. There'd be no fighting it or distracting himself any longer. He just prayed to whatever god or being that maybe ran things, that his brother, wherever he'd ended up, was, and would continue to be, alright.

As he rested his head against the portal he let his eyes slip closed completely and released a small sigh before saying his, "Goodnight.", choosing to believe -because apparently he was going to have to start believing in magic mumbo-jumbo if he was ever going to fix anything- that somehow, wherever Ford was, he'd know, even if he didn't hear.

* * *

It's a while before he says it again, and by then he can't remember the last time the words got past his lips. When he does say it, though, he means to.

Ford didn't know how long it had been since he'd been pushed through the portal. It could very well have been a few years, though it had felt more like ten. He'd given up on trying to figure it out on his own either way, figuring he'd come across somewhere with a proper calendar with earth-like timelines eventually. He'd been traversing the vast expanse of dimensions, rarely finding a single one of which was safe to remain in for longer than a few days, so find out those sorts of things, while helpful, were not frequently among his top priorities.

He thanked his lucky stars he'd had the good fortune of coming across the refugees who'd been kind enough to spare one of their Dimensional Translators. Ford had no idea what he would have done without the help they'd provided him with that little device. Trapped in a world- or rather, worlds- he hadn't understood, surrounded by creatures and customs he'd understood even less, the only thing he'd had to convince anyone he belonged even slightly had been the translator secured around neck. And even that, helpful as it may have been, had a downside when he'd stumbled across the dimensions in which proper technology had yet to be invented. Those creatures hadn't needed to know what they were looking at to understand money when they saw it, which meant he'd been nothing more than a piece of meat with credit attached to him in those cases.

Those dimensions had taught him several important things, though, one, being that scarves and turtlenecked garments were his only true friends, and the main being how to properly fight. So many situations he'd been caught in with no way of escape except to punch his way out had shaped him up. Some of it had come naturally, the years of boxing lessons he'd taken as a child and teenager returning to him and aiding his escapes. Unfortunately, his meager skills would never have been enough to survive for long and he'd had to teach himself many things when he hadn't been able to receive teachings, whether because of low funds or inhospitable people.

But he had learned. Learned and adapted until he felt secure enough to walk into just about any situation in any world he came across. He'd remained cautious, of course, but things had progressively become less daunting the stronger he got. He never let his guard down, though. There'd been plenty of reasons before he'd been pushed into the portal for the constant reminder to "trust no one", and there continued to be wherever he went.

However, as Ford surveyed his surroundings right then, he was able to tell the dimension he'd been portaled into that time would be decidedly friendlier than any he'd seen in some time. The city he found himself in glowed a bright color that he couldn't find a proper word description for, as it had never existed in dimension 46'\\. The locals had called it "var~*". Though, while an encouraging feature, the color itself wasn't the true indicator of peaceful nature of the dimension, but the beings that had greeted him with smiles -or, what he'd come to recognize as smiles.

As soon as the portal had spit him out into the middle of the bustling crowd the creatures had swarmed him, their multiple limbs and and antennae shooting out to inspect him. After likely realizing he was no threat to them, they'd proceeded to give him a tour, offering him food and shelter for whenever night was to come, and telling all there was to know about the city when he'd asked. It was quite honestly the greatest surprise he could have had- what, after the last six dimensions he'd been through had been full of things that either wanted to eat him, have him as a pet, procreate with him, kill him because he'd accidentally insulted them, or capture him to give to Bill.

Coming across a dimension such as the one he walked through then was like finding a river in the desert. The only thing mildly irritating about it was one of the customs the creatures seemed to have, which contained a great amount of touching for communication, so while he was getting an earful of excited and informed chatter, he also had to deal with slime coated hands running through his hair while a second pair wrapped snugly around his waist, shoulders, arms- essentially anywhere it was physically possible to wrap one's arms. It was a decidedly uncomfortable form of communication, but he'd learned from experience that if the creature was doing something to you that it also did to its own kind, it was best to just let them.

His presence had so far been well received and he didn't feel like ruining that over something so minor as his discomfort. They'd been so thrilled to see him it made Ford wonder how often they had visitors from other dimensions.

By the time the tour finished, most of the creatures' excitement had died down, so they'd left him alone with his tour guide, and Ford was about prepared to fall and sleep on the sleek, hard ground where he stood. In fact, the only things keeping him from swaying at that point were the arms secured around his chest. The creature, who'd introduced themselves as "Fiibo", still prattled on, but he'd begun tuning them out several minutes back, knowing it was safe to do so. It wasn't until they stopped suddenly that Ford plugged back into what was going on.

They'd returned to the area he'd been informed would be his shelter and Fiibo was telling him that he would be left alone for the remainder of the evening if that was what he wished.

"Ah, yes, thank you," Ford said distractedly as he dug through one of his pants pockets to retrieve one of his credit chips. "Here." He offered the metal disc to Fiibo but they shook their heads and assured him that it wasn't necessary. He placed the chip back into his pocket slowly. "Very well. What type of work do you require for-"

"No, no! No work," Fiibo stated in unison, mirth in their eyes as they moved their hands up to cup his cheeks. Ford chuckled nervously at the touch before clearing his throat, "And, um, what form of payment do you accept then?"

Fiibo trilled softly as they leaned down, briefly touching each forehead to his own. Ford was momentarily confused, having grown used to needing either work or credits to pay for anything, and opened his mouth to ask what they were doing when his vision went momentarily white and a familiar voice filled his ears.

" _Hey, easy there. Let's talk this through, okay?"_

" _-That's_ it _?! You finally wanna see me after ten years, and it's to tell me to get as far away from you as possible?!-"_

" _-You think_ you've _got problems? I've got a_ mullet _, Stanford!-"_

" _-Some brother you turned out to be-"_

" _-Oh no- what do I do?-"_

The pressure against his forehead vanished, and with it, the memory, and Ford was left gasping for air as his ears rung and he blinked spots from his vision. Fiibo hadn't said a word, so once he had his breathing under control, Ford glared up at them with gritted teeth. "What. The hell. Was that?"

He narrowed his eyes at Fiibo and noted the almost mournful expression they wore when they answered. "Payment. You may stay four moonrests. Then you must go."

They stroked his cheek gently and it was then that Ford realized they had tears in their eyes. He went to ask why. Why would seeing that memory -at least he assumed that's what had happened- cause _them_ such grief? Secondly, why hadn't they told him what they'd been planning to do? Why had they even chosen that particular memory? How in the world could that be seen as payment? He wanted to ask, but they departed before he could, the gems and sheer curtains they disappeared behind closing him off from the outside and leaving him alone with his thoughts. With his memories.

Ford sank onto the bed-like structure and slowly pulled his packs and coat off, setting them down beside him as he let his mind wander for what felt like the first time in months. As much as he wanted to be angry with Fiibo for bringing up something like that, he found he couldn't be, because… because it had been so long since he'd thought about that incident. In fact, he'd nearly forgotten what the fight had been about. All he could ever bring into mind was that they'd fought and Stanley had pushed him into the very portal he'd warned him to never turn on.

If anything he should be mad at Stanley, the big oaf who'd sent him into the worlds he'd never wanted to have to see. Yet even so, Ford found he wasn't. Not like usual anyway. The heated tightness in his chest, while typically accompanied by hateful thoughts, was dulled this time, less ugly. Because with the remembrance that Fiibo had initiated, came the feeling of being weighed down by a metric ton of water as something crucially important came to his realization, striking him and hurting in a way he hadn't hurt in some time.

He'd forgotten what Stanley sounded like.

He'd thought for sure the voice he sometimes remembered in his head was correct. He'd never considered the possibility that he could be so far off. He'd forgotten, and what was worse, he hadn't even noticed. It made Ford wonder what else he'd forgotten but thought he still knew clearly- made him worry that perhaps some of his recollections had become warped over time.

In fact, the more he thought about how much he'd potentially remembered wrong, the more he realized he couldn't remember quite a few things from when he'd been younger. The way his childhood home had looked, what Ma sounded like, what Filbrick smelled like, that one teacher he'd adored in his second year of college… he remembered none of it. There were snippets, pieces that seemed familiar and, if he could see them clearly, would likely fit the puzzle, but not enough to for a complete picture to be formed.

No, he hadn't forgotten everything important. He still remembered a plethora of things. Bigger, more important things, like the reason Stanley had been kicked out of the house, the reasons he himself had built the portal in the first place, and his once best friend Fiddleford. He remembered plenty, but… he'd forgotten plenty too. And he hadn't even noticed when the memories started slipping away.

But… he'd forgotten what his brother had sounded like, and that was the kicker. After finding himself in the nightmare dimension, and even after, he'd had dreams of that fateful evening. He would dream that he never got pushed into the portal, or that it had been Stanley instead of him, and in each dream Stanley had always sounded the same. Even the dreams had been wrong. Of course, dreams were just a manifestation of unconscious thought, but that just meant it had actually been he who'd been getting it wrong the entire time.

It certainly made him wonder if anything else he'd seen or remembered in those dreams had been accurate in any way. That thought, more than any of the others, made his stomach clench painfully as he realized it might not only have been the voice that he'd messed up. A ridiculous thought, maybe, considering all he had to do was look at a reflective surface to know he hadn't forgotten what his brother looked like, but even so, it concerned him.

Despite his fatigue begging him to simply drop it and go to sleep, Ford snatched his coat back up and rifled through one of the inner pockets until he secured what he'd been searching for. He hadn't looked at the picture in ages. It looked shockingly decent when he considered the amount of wear it _could_ have been subjected to had it not remained safely inside his clothing, but he wasn't interested in that. He stared long and hard at the children in the photograph, the ones who were happy and together without a care in the world, and honed in on the one who refused to wear glasses.

Ford knew he'd be lying to himself if he said he hadn't ever dreamt of his childhood, when life was simpler and he had a silly idea to sail the world and a stupid sibling to share in that fantasy. In those times, when he pictured Stanley, he looked exactly like the child Ford found himself staring at. He sagged further into the bed, relief flooding his system; if he could correctly imagine Stanley when he was little, then there was no way he'd been picturing him wrong any other time. He'd forgotten plenty of things, but he hadn't forgotten what Stanley had looked like.

It was insane, how much that knowledge relieved him, but Ford didn't mind too terribly in that moment, because for the first time in a long time, staring at the photo didn't fill him with bitterness and resentment. Yes, he still was saddened by it, the lost friendship it reminded him of, but he wasn't angry about it. His thoughts hadn't so far filled with harsh insults directed at the brother who'd gotten him into his current predicament, and oddly enough, that relieved him even more than knowing he hadn't forgotten something.

It was likely one of the stranger, and certainly one of the more juvenile, things he'd done in some time, but as he began to settle down to rest and slipped the photo back into its safe spot, Ford sighed quietly to himself and said the softest, "Goodnight". Nobody, save him would hear it, of course, but something about the familiar memories the word carried with it brought him comfort he hadn't felt in quite some time.


	5. All The Doubts I've Faced

**A/N: _Only one chapter left, folks!_**

* * *

 **All The Doubts I've Faced**

When he says it again, it has to be the hundredth time, yet somehow it hurts more than any of the times before. This time he wants someone to hear him, and no ones does.

Ford was back.

That was probably the only complete sentence his mind would form that entire day. When he'd been punched by the one person he'd been hoping to embrace, when he'd told the kids and Soos his (as Mabel had put it) "tragic backstory", when he'd been waiting for the government agents to leave, that had been the only thought worthy of paying any attention to.

Ford was back.

So many years spent studying and working had actually payed off. All the money that had been put into the machine had counted for something. All the lying, cheating, and general asshole-ry had amounted to something. Every night spent screaming at scrap metal and crying onto the already stained pages of a single journal, desperately scrambling for any sort of solution or clue, had been worth it.

He'd done it. After thirty long years, he'd done it. He'd brought his brother home.

It had meant lying to his family and potentially risked screwing up the relationship he'd come to form with Dipper and Mabel, but there'd been no way he could've stopped after all the progress he'd made. And in the end, while the lies had had caused his niblings lot of unneeded stress by accident, they'd understood and really come through. And, if he would be completely honest, he knew there was no way he could've found the other two journals on his own. He still hadn't figured out how Dipper found the third one, but that could be dealt with later.

Or he would, if they would talk to him. Stan still couldn't be sure if they trusted him after everything that had happened. Mabel sure seemed alright- in fact she was downright thrilled- but Dipper… Stan hadn't missed the cold looks the kid had shot him more than once since everything had gone down. Yeah, he'd said he understood why he'd lied to them, and he'd been sorry for not believing him to begin with, by Stan knew all too well that just because someone apologized for their actions and could be aware of why you did something, it didn't mean the same thing as forgiveness. It certainly didn't mean trust was re-earned.

For the first time in thirty years, Stan found himself being desperate for something different. Especially since he was quickly realizing his hopes for a proper reunion with his brother had not only been ridiculous, but highly unrealistic.

After so long alone, wanting nothing more than to have his sibling back with him, Stan had forgiven Ford. He couldn't pinpoint when or why, but after awhile it had just seemed pointless to hold a grudge for something that had happened over a decade back, especially when he was constantly in the process of trying to bring him home. He'd thought Ford would've been the same way, but as was his luck, his brother had seemed angrier than ever.

He couldn't understand it. Sure, he'd screwed up in getting Ford sucked into the portal, but it had been an _accident._ How was he supposed to have known that there was a vacuum point for the thing when all Ford had done beforehand was explain to him what the thing was- and at the time, he hadn't even understood _that_.

Didn't matter, though, because Ford was still furious, and that was what it came down to. Thirty years of his own life spent on a family member who couldn't be bothered, even for one second, to acknowledge all the time and effort he'd put into getting them back. There was just no pleasing him, was there? If he wasn't upset about the dream school he'd missed out on, he was mad about Stan being mad, and when it wasn't that, apparently it was the accident from _thirty fucking years ago_.

Stan could've laughed at himself for thinking things would ever change between them. How could he have possibly expected Ford to be even the least bit grateful for the sacrifices he'd made in his life, when it was so clear -and always had been, really- that he only ever cared about himself? He'd come to that conclusion before, during his tirade when they'd been younger, but it was only then that Stan realized just how right he'd been.

Maybe he should've just told Mabel to press the button after all.

Stan shook his head forcefully to quickly banish that thought. _No_. No matter how upset he was about Ford's actions towards him, there was no way he'd wish for the man to be anywhere else, especially if that somewhere else wasn't earth. Still, it did make him wonder, if he'd never tried to bring Ford back and had decided to permanently assume control of his brother's identity, would he be happier? Would the pain in his heart go away if he'd just given up and allowed himself to be content with the family he had left?

Probably not.

Even so, he couldn't deal with it. Not right now. The kids would only be with him a couple more weeks, and then, according to what Ford was saying, he'd be back out on the streets. It would be a hell of a lot harder than it had been in his younger days, especially after he'd grown used to a bed that didn't kill his back, warmth during the winter, food whenever he wanted it, and a TV, and all those other little pleasures only a home could provide. He knew he could do it. If he had to, he could, but the fact that Ford would kick him to the curb as soon as there were no innocent witnesses to judge him for it was the final clincher that drove home the resounding "yes" in the "Is Ford really an asshole?" game. The fact that as soon as he was able, he would do the same thing Filbrick had done all those years ago hurt more than he'd thought it would.

It was the final straw.

" _Cuz as far as I'm concerned, they're the only family I have left."_

He didn't wait to hear Ford's reaction, if he'd had one at all. It felt like an eternity before he got to the top of the stairs, and it took every bit of restraint he possessed to not look back to see if Ford was still standing there. Instead he headed into his bedroom. He could hear Mabel and Dipper talking as he walked passed their door. They sounded like their usual, happy selves, and he smiled sadly. It was good that those two were so close. They always had each other's' backs.

He could only pray nothing destroyed that bond.

Maybe he'd talk to them about it when morning came around, how no matter what happened in the future, they had to remember how precious their connection was and to never let anything, be it dreams, ambitions, boyfriends or girlfriends, parents, school- whatever, wreck it. Friends and relationships would come and go, parents could disown you or cut you off, but when things got hairy, if you still had them in your life, you could always count on your twin to be there.

Yeah, he'd be sure to tell them that sometime before they left, because the possibility of anything similar to his and Ford's fallout happening to them… wasn't anything he wanted want to think about. He knew all too well how much it hurt to love someone who was obviously never going to care enough to love you back, and he didn't want Mabel and Dipper to ever experience that.

Stan closed the door to his room with a heavy pent up sigh, leaning back against the woodwork briefly as his racing heart slowed. He'd never thought, in all his years, that the one who would finally cut the cord would be him. In fact, he'd never pictured it being cut in the first place. In his delusions of a thankful brother, he'd also come to create some world around that reunion, where they forgave and forgot and spent the rest of their days making up for lost time. Where Ford deigned to amuse him with his oh-so precious time and didn't have anything better to do than bond with the family he'd missed so very much.

"Ugh," he groaned as he pushed away from the door and made his way over to the dresser. He didn't make a habit of smoking with the kids around, but dammit if he didn't need one right then. He'd crack open the piddly little window or something so it didn't bother anyone.

As he puffed on the cigar, Stan could feel his anger retreating to be replaced with a numbness that encompassed his entire being. The gravity of what Ford had said to him, and what he'd shot back in return started weighing heavily upon him, drowning him in their finality. It sort of felt like anchors had been tied around his ankles and he was slowly being dragged down into the blackest depths of the ocean, the pressure making his head fuzzy and leaving his eyes feeling like they would pop out of his skull at any given moment.

He sniffed and put the cigar out when the smoke made his eyes burn. He closed the window and took a second to pause and look out at the black outline of forest against the night sky. He hadn't wanted the night to end this way. He'd wanted to hang outside on the porch with Ford, drinking something a little stronger than Pitt Cola and finding out how his brother had been the past three decades. After a bit, Ford would've loosened up and started really getting into what he was saying, and he'd've taken on that steely, passionate look he always had when talking about something adventurous and/or scientific. They'd… maybe, discuss the whole "demon possession" thing he'd read about in Dipper's journal. They'd make up.

He'd wanted to talk until his tongue grew heavy and he leaned against Ford, still outside on the couch beside him, and for the first time in a long time, his words would be heard.

But, as he'd learned time and time again, things rarely went how he wanted them to. He'd known that and still allowed himself to get sentimental and wistful about the idea of a life of normalcy with his best friend. And he regretted it completely.

So, as was likely to be the way for the rest of his life, nobody heard him. Not when his breath hitched while he wiped away a few stray tears, not when he prayed to no one in particular for things to get easier despite the circumstances, and certainly not when he said goodnight.

* * *

When he says it again, he's sure to be quiet and doesn't know why he's saying it. The one who wants to hear it doesn't, and there is no point, but he says it anyway.

He was back.

At first, Ford had thought having family around would be frustrating and awkward, but the more he'd gotten to know the children in the short periods in which he'd been allowed to be around them, the more he'd fallen in love with them. He hadn't been particularly fond of Stanley's hovering whenever Mabel and Dipper had struck up conversation, but it couldn't have been helped. They'd come to an agreement of sorts and so long as he kept to his part, Stanley would keep to his at the end of the summer.

However, he'd found it had become increasingly difficult to stay away from them. Every time he came up from the basement he'd be bombarded with smiles and questions from the excited balls of energy. It was true, if he had actually wanted to avoid them he would've been able to with ease, but he _hadn't_ wanted to.

So when Dipper had crashed into his lab earlier that week and asked if he'd wanted to play his all-time favorite game, of course he'd immediately said yes. It was odd, how quickly he'd warmed to Dipper, considering it had continued to be a challenge getting used to the dimension after so long spent away from it, but he'd decided it had to do with how similar Dipper was to himself. They'd just… clicked.

Granted, things had gone downhill fairly quickly after they'd started that game, but in the end, they'd had a lot of fun and even managed to rope Stanley and Mabel into it, so he could call that one a win. Dipper seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed himself as well once the threat of having his brain eaten had been removed. Of course, he hadn't been too worried about the predicament, having dealt with worse situations in the past, but it had served as a reminder that Dipper wasn't wholly like him; he hadn't experienced half the things he had in his life. Ford had decided then that he'd have to spend more time with the boy, help him reach his full potential as an individual.

The go-ahead to spend more time with him that Dipper had gotten from Stanley had come as a surprise, but the apology he'd given Dipper for making fun of the game had been even more so. Ford remembered how hard it had been to get Stanley to apologize when they'd been young -that and "please" had been like pulling teeth- so hearing him say it so easily then made him pause. He'd almost forgotten that while he'd been growing as a person during his time alone… so had Stanley. His brother had just seemed so similar to his younger, hotheaded and reckless self when they'd first reunited that he hadn't considered for a second that he might have changed in any way whatsoever.

It almost made him wonder how else Stanley had grown. Almost.

After they'd gotten back home, he'd quickly retreated back downstairs, leaving the others to watch their kid's show. The twins had asked him to stay, but when he'd seen Mabel getting settled on one side of Stanley and her brother sitting contently on the other, the rest of their small group on the floor, he'd declined. He knew when an invitation was a courtesy and not legitimate desire to have someone there, and he wouldn't have understood the show that had them all so excited anyway.

Hours later, when the children had been sent to bed, Ford dragged himself back upstairs to clean up the rest of his and Dipper's game. Stanley told him he didn't have to, that he was already doing it, but Ford shrugged, stooping down to pick up a handful of graph paper on the side of the room opposite his brother.

"It would be senseless -you cleaning everything in order to bring it down to me- when I'm already here and can take it myself."

He caught Stanley's eyeroll but decided it best to ignore him for favor of focusing on the task at hand. He hadn't expected him to actually be picking up after someone else, but apparently that was just one of the other ways his brother had changed over the years. Or maybe it was something he'd been forced to learn when the twins had come into his life. Ford supposed it didn't much matter when or why Stanley had begun doing it, just that he was. Still, it struck him as strange.

But then, the longer he was around the man, the more he noticed and the more he realized he really didn't know Stanley at all anymore. So many things he once recognized about him were gone, leaving Ford with someone who might as well have been a stranger- an anomaly to be studied.

The way Stan looked and carried himself wasn't at all like Ford remembered. He slouched more than he ever had seen him do before, his hair had thinned, and while his face still mirrored his, the lines on his face were more severe than the ones marring his own. Heavy frowns must have been his default expression for a large portion of time.

What struck him the most, though, was the knowledge that he had no idea why age hadn't been nearly as kind to his brother as it had him. He had no idea what experiences had turned Stanley into whoever he now was, and it was the oddest feeling, being aware you _should_ know something about someone, and yet not having a clue.

He pointedly ignored the familiar scar peeking out from underneath his brother's wife-beater when a thrill of panic and guilt shot through him. It seemed some things hadn't changed one bit.

He must have noticed his staring because Stanley looked up from what he was doing abruptly, leaving Ford to drop his attention back to the last couple of papers and pencils strewn about. He could feel the eyes boring into him as he grabbed the last couple pieces from his area. When he straightened up and caught his twin's eye, he wondered if Stanley was thinking along the same lines as he'd been, or if he was staring just to be annoying.

Ford took his starring as an opportunity to retrieve the items from his brother. Stanley handed them over, clearing his throat as he did, which had Ford raising an eyebrow and shuffling the papers just to give his hands something to do while he waited for him to say something.

"You… ate dinner, right?"

"Oh." Ford blinked. He didn't know why, but he'd almost been expecting something different to come out of Stanley's mouth. He had no idea what it would've been, but it wasn't that. He scratched the back of his neck and shrugged. "Not yet, but I don't, uh, really eat food in the traditional sense anymore anyway."

"Oh," Stan mumbled, dropping his attention to the black screen of the TV at the far end of the room, "Okay."

Heavy silence took up the room within seconds, the unfamiliar brand of tension leaving Ford with the option to either continue the pathetic attempt at a conversation or leave. Seeing as it was the first interaction they'd had since he'd come home that hadn't devolved into an argument, Ford figured it would be best to leave before the environment grew hostile once more. There didn't seem to be much else he could do, after all.

"I'm going to go."

The announcement was stiff and awkward, but Stan accepted it graciously enough, giving a short nod. "Alright, have fun."

Ford hummed and turned away, walking perhaps a touch faster than necessary towards the other room where the vending machine was located. He needed to be back downstairs where everything was blessedly familiar. It was one of the places in the house that hadn't been changed much... actually it was the _only_ thing in his world that hadn't been changed in _any_ way, shape, or form. It may have housed the dismantled remains of one of his greatest regrets, but it was one of the most comforting places in the whole of Gravity Falls for him for the time being. He knew he'd grow accustomed to all the changes, but not yet. He'd start small, and he'd made some progress just then with Stanley. At least he thought so.

He'd managed a brief exchange with his brother without wanting to yell at or punch him. He'd considered that minor progress, even if it wasn't really much in the grand scheme of things. He briefly wondered if his twin felt at all like they'd taken a step towards… something. Tolerance? Maybe.

"Goodnight."

It was said softly enough that he could've easily missed it, but he didn't. Ford halted in front of the vending machine, his free hand, which had been lifted to punch in the new code he'd given it, dropped as he slowly turned around to face Stanley.

His face must have given away how taken aback he was, because Stan's expression immediately closed off from view. His eyes gave away all he didn't show, though, and Ford swallowed hard when he recognized the very same emotions he'd seen in his own eyes at one point or another in life flashing in rapid succession: Fear, uncertainty, hope, anxiety, and after the silence had stretched on between them for a half second longer than it should have, regret.

Stan shrunk back and huffed a quiet laugh. It was a broken up little sound and Ford tensed when he recognized it as the same one he'd utter whenever Filbrick would finish yelling at him. "Uh, a-anyway," he stuttered, already beginning to retreat in the direction of the front door, "I've gotta go, um, make sure Soos went home and ain't just hangin' around."

Stanley ran off before he could react. Part of him wanted to call out, to tell him to come back, but his tongue lay useless in his mouth while the other part of him was glad he'd stayed silent. He didn't want to get Stan's hopes up and open that can of worms. Neither of them had forgiven each other, and Ford didn't know if they ever could. He didn't know if _he_ could. How could he forgive someone who'd ignored all his warnings and had risked the fate of the universe just to rectify a mistake? He couldn't see how.

That fact didn't stop his throat from closing up as he bit the inside of his lip and stared at the door his twin had disappeared behind. It certainly didn't stop him from opening his mouth as he went back to typing the code in, the smallest of sighs escaping him as he answered, much too late:

"Goodnight, Stanley."


	6. I Continue To Face Them

**A/N: _Okay, this is the last chapter in this little adventure. Thanks to everyone who followed along and encouraged me, it really means a lot! You guys keep me going. ;) OH! The some of you might have noticed (or you may have not) that each chapter is a line from the song "I Have Made Mistakes by the Oh Hellos"- give it a listen if you want more feels!_**

* * *

 **I Continue To Face Them**

When they say it then, they're content and know it's time to stop keeping count. There will be so many more instances in which it's said in the future, so there's no need to cling to the moments. They both know the other feels the same way.

Weirdmageddon had come and gone, and with it, had left the anger, the resentment, the petty grudges. All of it seemed to have been sucked into the rift along with the horrors that had never belonged in their world. And as if making up for him missing out on the the twisted, perplexing events of Weirdmageddon, Ford's emotional state had been thrown through the wringer and spit back out within the space of a few hours.

He'd dreamed of the moment Bill Cipher was vanquished so many times in his life, imagined the relief that would wash over him as he and millions across the multiverse rejoiced, for the triangle's reign of terror had ended. After his meeting with Jheselbraum, it had become a cemented into his mind that not only would it come to pass, but it would be him to do it.

Never once had he considered an alternative to the prophecy. Never had he wondered if Cipher's defeat would come by someone else. Never had he considered that the circumstances resulting in the defeat of the demon would be devastating.

Because it hasn't been he to save the universe, but Stanley.

Stanley had saved everyone.

And he wasn't able to remember.

No longer had there been a Stanley around _to_ remember, just an empty shell, blinking slowly as if dazed, the look on his face not unlike that of a child discovering the world for the first time.

Ford hadn't been able to completely identify the feeling tightening his chest, but he hadn't bothered to truly make an effort. He knew enough to be aware that the his inability to breath had nothing to do with a physical problem. He wanted to be numb, to push everything he felt into a box for later review, but the plethora of emotions rushing through him wouldn't allow him to do even that. Instead he was left with an ache in his bones that resulted from far more than just residual soreness of the battle, which had ended minutes ago. He wanted to ignore that, too, just like he wanted to ignore pressure behind his eyes as he knelt down and bit back the urge to scream at the man in his arms to _just hug him back already!_

He didn't allow himself to break down just then. As he stepped away from the man on the ground, he forced himself to get pulled together. He knew he had to keep a hold of himself if he ever planned to get through the rest of the day. And he had to get through the day, if not for any other reason than the fact that he needed to be there for the kids. Dipper and Mabel, who were so broken up over the events that they remained huddled together, staring at him with their grief on display for all to see. It broke Ford's heart even more.

Yet he knew he couldn't allow them to become swallowed by their pain either; if they did, they might never recover- especially Mabel. She and Stanley had had such a special bond, that he had known after seeing them interact for only a few minutes. If she was allowed to wallow in her sadness, she could be hard pressed to ever come back to them.

Perhaps the same thoughts had gone through her twin's mind, because Dipper grabbed his sister's hand and dragged her to her feet to envelope her in a tight hug that seemed to calm her. Ford hated the way his heart clenched painfully at the sight, less for the reason that it was gut wrenching to see the two hurting so badly, and more because he wished more than anything that he had his sibling to help him get through this.

He cast his attention back to Stanley and saw he'd gotten to his feet and looked around with eyes still so curiously wide. He hadn't bothered to right the fez, which still sat crooked atop his head, and Ford swallowed the lump in his throat. It wasn't right. Nothing about it was.

Stanley was a hero, and he didn't even look like himself.

Ford wanted to grab the man by his shoulders and shake him, scream at him to cut it out and complain that he still hadn't gotten a thank you, that the sweater he wore wasn't comfortable when compared to the crisp dress shirt he was used to. He knew it would do nothing, because there was no Stanley in there to remember. He of all people knew how well the memory gun worked, and how useless it was to try and bring lost memories back. Still, Ford couldn't stand seeing his brother not looking like his brother.

Soos helped him assist Stan in changing back into his suit, and the entire time Ford felt like he should've said something to the handyman, something to comfort him. He'd seen how much the man cared for his brother, and he hadn't missed the affectionate looks Stanley had shot him when he thought nobody was looking. The two clearly had some form of bond between them that went beyond just a boss and employee, and Ford wanted to say something to him, though he couldn't think of what.

After that, Ford handed Stanley off to the kids. They needed him, even if it wasn't him. He could see it in their eyes, their body language, that they still didn't understand, and Ford was reminded of just how young they were. It was easy to forget that they were only children on the cusp of teenhood. He watched as the children and Soos led the man who was and yet wasn't theirs with varying expressions of worry and sadness. They would refuse to believe Stanley was gone until they'd exhausted all their options, Ford knew, because that was who they were. They were the kids who had endured the horrors of Weirdmageddon and come out possibly stronger because of it; the kids who, instead of running away from the strangeness of Gravity Falls, tried to understand and help it. They were amazing kids.

He wished they wouldn't try. He already struggled with figuring out how to deal with the overwhelming guilt of taking away their uncle, and the sorrow of losing his brother, he had no idea how he would be able to handle the grief stricken children when they finally came to terms with the fact that their uncle's mind was gone, and with it, him.

When Mabel brought out the scrapbook, Ford almost left the room. He didn't think he'd be able to bear to watch, knowing how devastated she would be once she allowed herself to give up when she realized Stanley wasn't going to remember anything. He'd almost allowed his own selfishness to pull him away from the kids instead of help them, even when he knew it was a lost cause- he could see that much in the confusion on his twin's face as Mabel went on about the macaroni interpretations of her emotions.

Yet he could also see that, while he couldn't remember, he _wanted_ to. Oh, if Mabel and Dipper's desperate attempts to get his memory jogged was heartbreaking, then Stanley's expression of genuine bewilderment as he squinted, trying to remember something he wasn't even aware he should remember, was just devastating.

But then Waddles, that swine that Ford had been highly irritated to have had roaming the halls of his house when he'd first been introduced by Mabel, tipped the balance and it was Ford's turn to be confused. It was the best kind of confusion, certainly, because soon as Stanley had said that pig's name, Ford felt his heart slam hard against his ribcage and he was quick to join Dipper, Mabel and Soos, crowding the man that wasn't yet his brother, hoping beyond hope that maybe... just maybe he would be.

He had no idea how it was possible for Stanley's memory to be returning, but he refused to ponder it's possibilities until he was sure the moment hadn't been a fluke. Yes, he would hope for the best, but he wouldn't allow himself to get caught up in the excitement. Not like Dipper and Mabel had.

And it had all gotten simultaneously better and worse after that. Stanley had started to remember: The Shack, the kids…

Pretty much everything except Ford.

That much had been evident in the first hour they'd all talked. Ford hadn't been able to stop smiling as his brother remembered, but as Stanley had interacted with the three younger people of the group, Ford had noticed he kept shooting glances his way. Each time his brows had furrowed and after the fourth or fifth time Ford understood why, and the realization that his brother still couldn't figure out who he was had slammed into him like Xanthar had way back when.

Ford had to swallow several times to force the lump of dread in his throat back down where it belonged. He'd known, logically, that it made sense for Stanley to remember Dipper and Mabel when they were, after all, the ones in his most recent memory. But when he began recalling first hiring Soos, and being there for the twins' birth -memories which were decidedly not recent- Ford began to worry.

No, not worry- that wasn't the right word. Worry was when someone tripped and you thought they might be hurt. Worry was when you couldn't remember whether or not you'd left the stove on. It was empty wallets and crumbling dimensions and a crying child. What Ford felt then, was dread. It was the same feeling he got when Bill showed up in one of his dreams, and when he found himself somewhere with bounty hunters on his trail, and most recently, when Bill had gone after the kids. It was cold and stiff and no matter what you did, it lingered, always in the back of your mind, always whispering "what if's" in your ear.

And for Ford, it wouldn't stop one traitorous "what if" in particular:

 _What if he doesn't ever remember you?_

Ford had done his best to ignore that. That voice that shouldn't have been there anymore, still preying on his deepest fears despite no longer existing. It would be fine. Stanley would remember him. He knew he would. He just hadn't yet because the right memories hadn't been brought up.

Stanley would remember eventually. He'd have to be patient, Ford knew, and he had been… for quite awhile, actually. He'd known how important it was that he let Dipper and Mabel re-bond with Stan, so he hadn't interrupted. In fact, he'd been enjoying listening to all the stories they told about their summer adventures, recounted all the times his brother had punched a supernatural creature in the face. However, evening had come and the sun began to set, casting the room into softer light and his patience out the door. It had gotten to be too much, the waiting, the wondering, the watching Stanley remember everyone but him.

Mabe had mentioned being hungry a bit earlier, but hadn't gotten up to remedy that, and Ford decided it was as good a chance as any to remove them from his brother's side for a few minutes. It wasn't that he didn't wanted the kids around when Stanley remembered him, but it also… was. There'd been things in his and his brother's past that were meant to be private- in fact, pretty much the whole of their past had been that way; only meant for them. He loved them, but when it came to Stanley remembering him, he didn't want them around.

Ford glanced over at Soos, clearing his throat softly to get his attention. Soos stood up from where he'd been knelt next to Stan and smiled at him. Ford tried to return the sentiment but failed when he replied immediately to the unasked question.

"Do you think you could take the kids to get something to eat?"

Soos had met the his gaze steadily a moment, silent as he considered the request and Ford nearly sagged with relief when the handyman nodded a second later. Ford had had to hold in a thank you when he smiled, asking the kids if they wanted to head out and eat.

Mabel seemed about to protest, clearly not wanting to be parted from Stanley, but Dipper stopped her by grabbing her hand and giving it a light squeeze. He was much less subtle in his movements when he motioned over his shoulder and Ford waved awkwardly when Mabel whipped her head in his direction, her eyes growing wide as she realized what Soos and her brother were getting at.

She was quick to get up after that, dragging Dipper with her and asking Stanley if he'd be hungry for anything. Of course he said no and told them to go have fun, which had been the end of that, and Ford once again found himself impressed by how perceptive his niblings were. He was also thankful that they'd been so willing to give up time with their favored uncle in order to give him a moment alone. He made a mental note to give them hugs specifically for that later.

It hadn't been easy after that. The two of them stood awkwardly, unsure of where to start or what to do with themselves. Ford did his best to remain relaxed, to act as if everything was fine and he hadn't gone with Mabel and Dipper solely because he hadn't been hungry either. It was difficult to manage when he wanted nothing more than to pace in an attempt to calm his nerves.

After some silence, Stanley sat back down in his chair, petting Waddles' head when the pig snuffled at him. When he looked at him again, recognition continued to elude his gaze, and Ford sighed heavily while leaning against the TV. He had no clue where to start and was one of the most frustrating things.

It didn't help that the dread that hadn't ceased eating at him began making him wonder whether or not he deserved the confusion in his brother's eyes. After all, he'd been the one to erase his memories in the first place, so maybe it was been fair that he hadn't been remembered. Still, the thought of possibly being forever removed from Stanley's memory made Ford want to curl in on himself and disappear.

Of course, being full of surprises, Stanley crossed his arms and fixed him with a hard stare before breaking the silence.

"Alright, so why are you important?"

"What?" Ford blinked, surprised by the familiar blunt manner in which the question was delivered.

"Look, I kinda got the gist of how this remembering thing works. If your important, I've got ya somewhere in here," he tapped the side of his head, "and ya keep looking at me like I should've figured it out a long time ago. So help me out here."

"Oh." Ford thought he'd been doing a good job of hiding his distress, but apparently it would seem he'd failed miserably if someone with no knowledge of his tells could figure him out. Still, he had no idea of how he was supposed to tell Stanley. He was stuck between being blunt, taking the route of, "well we shared a womb for nine months, so yeah I'd say I'm pretty important", and the "I don't know if I'm important to _you_ , but you're my brother, so you're at the very least, important to _me_ ", approach.

He had the perfect opportunity to have Stan remember him without disturbance, and he couldn't figure out how he was supposed to do it. So, of course his first response was to panic and clamp down. "I, uh, it doesn't… it doesn't matter."

The look Stanley gave him made Ford think of their mother when one of them had tried lying to her and she'd struggled with deciding whether she wanted to smack them or laugh at them. It had been ages since he'd seen anywhere wear the expression, and seeing it on his brother made him both suddenly nostalgic and extremely wary.

"Oh no ya don't," he argued, getting up from his seat and pointing angrily at him. "Just cuz ya don't wanna put the effort into helping me don't mean ya get to say it's nothing!"

"It's not that I don't want to put in the effort," Ford protested, "it's that I don't know where to start."

"Oh, gee, I have no idea what _that's_ like." The bitter snap made Ford pause and curse himself. He'd been tactless with his words there. Of course Stan would be sensitive about not remembering things; Ford could only imagine how frustrating it must have been for him, to know he knew something, and yet not know a thing at all.

Still, he shook his head, deny his brother answers. He didn't want to confuse Stanley more by trying to give him their life's story. After all, that's where the kids and Soos had started with him: Where they'd first met him in their memories. How was he supposed to find a good place to begin? And dammit why hadn't he thought about all of this before he'd sent the kids away?

Of course, the motion's true meaning was lost on Stanley, so he tightened his hands into fists and glared at him. "Knock it off! Just because I don't remember doesn't mean I'm an idiot, Ford, so just _tell me!_ "

It took a moment longer than it should have for him to process the words, but when he did, Ford stood shocked, not daring to move, or even breathe as he watched Stanley. The way his expression went suddenly from irritated to slack and wide-eyed nearly broken Ford, he himself daring to believe then that he'd heard correctly. However, just as soon as the slack expression had come, it disappeared once more, replace by a downturned mouth and scrunched brows.

Ford held his breath completely, watching as Stan's mouth began moving ever-so-slightly mouthing his name, until, after several seconds of tense silence, the confusion on his face disappeared.

When he finally looked up at him again, Ford didn't miss the tears threatening to spill over in his eyes. And when Stanley smiled tentatively as cleared his throat, Ford resisted the urge to wring his hands together. For his part, Stan seemed unsure of what to say, if the way he continually opened his mouth only to close it immediately after was any indicator.

"So, um," he started slowly, "doesn't this mean thanks are in order again?"

Ford couldn't have stopped the the sob from tearing out of his throat if he'd wanted to as he all but threw himself at his brother, burying his face into Stanley's shoulder, the small, "Whoa!" he got in response making his chuckle thickly.

"Thank you," he whispered hoarsely into his twin's jacket. He whispered it over and over until it seemed to have lost its meaning and it was hard to believe he'd ever had a hard time saying the words in the first place.

He couldn't bring himself to loosen the white knuckled death grip he had on his brother, even when he heard the kids return. Stanley didn't try to pry him off either, though -in fact he held him just as tight- and that made Ford's tears flow harder.

Forty years. Forty years Stanley had been waiting for this. When he'd hugged him in that clearing, the first time he'd dared embrace his sibling since returning home, and had been met with nothing but limp confusion, Ford had been so sure that wish of his brother's would never be fulfilled.

He'd been so sure that his mind would be forever lost, and he'd felt all the more devastated with the knowledge. Because despite every chance he'd been given to hug his brother before and during Weirdmageddon, he hadn't. That left the embrace hurting him more than the torture Bill wrought for the sole reason that… it was the first hug he'd given his brother in forty years and Stanley hadn't even known who he was, or how important the moment had been. Hell, he hadn't even returned the gesture. And Ford had thought that would be it.

Now, knowing it wasn't, that he could hug Stanley and that he knew who he was and how much it meant, it was enough to overwhelm Ford. He didn't even think he would've step away from Stanley if he could right then, afraid he'd collapse if he did.

In the space of only a few hours, he'd been abused and terrified, he'd watched his some of his family nearly be destroyed by the demon he'd invited into the world, and then he'd witnessed his twin taking the fall for his own mistakes. He'd proceeded to destroy said twin's mind, and then he'd been crushed by the guilt of doing so. He'd suffered in a prison of his own mind, even for a short time, worrying about the kids, dreading what would become of his brother's memories of him, and what would become of his brother in general. Then, through a simple argument that particular pain and fear disappeared

All of that, in the space of a few hours. He didn't know how to process any of it other than to cling to his brother for dear life and comfort himself with the reminder that Stanley had called him Ford. Stanley remembered. Stanley was back, and he was okay. And it was fascinating, how arguments seemed to be what surrounded all the pivotal moments in their lives. In a convoluted sort of way, how Stan remembered him made perfect sense.

How he was remembering continued to remain a mystery to him, but Ford still wasn't interested in figuring it out just yet. For the time being, it didn't matter. Stanley was okay, and he was back, and that was all that mattered. And Stanley was there and hugging him back, and he didn't hate him.

And then it struck Ford, with that thought, that Stanley didn't remember everything. It made him aware his sibling probably didn't even know he should have reason to be hating him, which left Ford's relief slowly melting into apprehension, as he realized the next step in getting all of Stanley's memories back would be the same as everyone else's.

Just like Mabel and Dipper had begun going over the parts of their lives with their uncle in them, he'd have to do the same until his brother was able to piece things together himself. He'd have to remind him of all the fights, all the hurt and heartbreak… and the reason he'd lost his memories to begin with. He didn't want to. Not yet, anyway. He wouldn't be selfish and never tell Stanley, but it could wait, if only for the night. Just a little while longer.

Ford started when he was pulling from his thoughts by two pairs of arms wrapping around his and Stanley's waists, squeezing tightly. _Ah, right, the kids_. Ford sniffled, quietly as he could manage, and ruffled Dipper's hair before releasing Stanley in order to do the same to Mabel. He didn't miss the way his brother scrubbed roughly at his eyes when they broke apart, and Ford sent him a shaky smile, which was returned without hesitation.

Dipper and Mabel took the opportunity their distance provided and tackled Stanley back onto the sofa chair. Ford chuckled softly and joined them, perching on the skull-table and doing his best to ignore the way both kids looked between him and his brother slowly with knowing expressions. The smiles that broke out on either of their faces had Ford shaking his head and Stanley grunting and changing the subject before they had the chance to ask any questions.

"So, where'd Soos go?"

"Oh, he said he was going to help Wendy 'clean up some of the chaos'," Dipper said, shrugging.

"He'll be back later," Mabel finished, tucking herself into Stanley's side and releasing a content little sigh.

They all remained like that for some time, until the sun had set and Mabel had dozed off, drooling a bit onto Stanley's arm. Dipper was debating whether or not to wake her up and get her to bed, and Stan, of course, was being no help in deciding. Watching the three of them interact, it made Ford smile fondly. They may have had a long way to go in helping Stanley remember everything, but if every day went as well as today, Ford had high hopes for the future.

* * *

When Stanley came back into the living room carrying a fresh bowl of popcorn with Mabel at his side telling him about the progression of TV quality, and one of his favorite shows, "Ducktective", the last thing he'd expected to find was his brother with a big device in his arms, Dipper trailing behind carrying a circular case. He had no idea what this would be about -but then, that was normal now, wasn't it?- but it looked nerdy, and he frowned.

"Aw, c'mon, I'm not even back into the game a week and you're gonna bore me?"

Ford rolled his eyes at him as he set the device, which looked a whole lot like a projector, if he remembered correctly, onto the skull beside the chair. Dipper carefully set the box onto the floor beside it and then stood off to the side, watching them. Mabel went over to her brother's side, to no doubt ask what was going on. Stan wanted to know too, since Ford seemed pretty serious about whatever he was doing as he set up some more things that confirmed for him that what his brother had was, in fact, a projector. Good, he enjoyed getting things right.

Though, what he planned on showing them, Stan had no clue. _He_ had no plans to be quiet about his curiosity, though. "Hey- ho, what's all this for?"

"I found these upstairs," Ford explained, "It's from when we were kids. I thought you might like to see them."

"Oh." Stan blinked in surprise. He still couldn't remember everything about their history together, but for the past two nights Ford had explained as much as he could think to, telling him why he'd lost his memories and apologizing until he wasn't doing much more than stuttering over the same remorse filled words repeatedly.

He'd been doing really good with remembering things, that was what everyone had assured him of when he'd gotten frustrated, but the sharper details of his childhood with Ford were still a bit of a blur to him. He'd tried and tried to clear them on his own, but the moments seemed determined to remain hidden from him. So if Ford seriously had film, he definitely wanted to watch.

He refused to get emotional over the fact that his brother had kept such delicate, precious things all these years, though. _He_ hadn't even known they'd existed, and from what he could recall, he'd been the one living in the Shack the longest. Or maybe he had known? Nah, if he had, the memory would've come back once he saw the projector.

From what he'd figured out on his own and what Ford had explained to him, his remembrance seemed to be triggered by familiar faces and images that were important to him. He was pretty sure if he was touched by the sentiment of the device now, it would qualify as "important" and have triggered any memories if he'd had them. Which left him wondering just what would be on the film reel. He also wondered how close his brother was to being done setting up, because he wanted to see them sooner rather than later.

They'd gotten a lot of his memory back during the day today alone, having gone all over town, reminding him of all his favorite places, introducing him to some people as they went. They'd gotten dinner at Greasy's Diner and Mabel had, after getting onto the topic of his cooking skills, helped him to remember his special brand of "Stan-cakes". With all of that finished, they were coming up on the end of the day and Stan was looking forward to it, because even if it meant staying up until he was beyond exhausted, it also meant going over his past with his brother, specifically.

He enjoyed the time spent together with Ford. The portal and Weirdmageddon had been some of the first memories involving him to come back, and so while at times it was distressing and confusing, putting the puzzle back together in order, he treasured every moment he had with his sibling. He knew just how important their time together was, and he was more than happy to occupy his brother's time.

Part of him had a hard time believing Ford cared enough to want him to remember everything so quickly, because according to more recent memories, Ford supposedly only cared about himself, but Stan did his best to shut that part of his brain up. It was true, he'd thought those things about his sibling at some point or another, but he didn't now. And maybe that was only because he didn't have all his memories of Ford. Either way, until he had all his memories back and could make an educated decision on how he felt, he'd continue to tell himself to be quiet. Ford cared about him, and whether or not Stan initially thought he did wasn't important.

Once he looked to have everything set up, Ford smiled widely and Stan snickered under his breath. He was acting like a kid on the first night of Hanukkah, practically bouncing from foot to foot, wringing his hands and motioning for him to sit, which made Stan all the more eager to see what was on the film.

"Well, we're set up, so… whenever you're ready…"

"Ha, yeah, alright." Stan punched his brother's shoulder as he took a seat.

Ford nodded, probably more to himself than anyone, and stood there a moment, staring at the wall before groaning softly and turning back to the projector. Stan bit his tongue to keep from laughing. It was funny when Ford was so focused on doing one thing that he forgot the main part. "One moment." He blushed and went to getting the reel into the projector.

Stan waited patiently, not saying a word, just listening to the rambling he always got from his brother; Ford tended to talk when he was nervous and doing work with his hands. Stan was pretty sure it had something to do with the fact that he was used to explaining what he did to everyone around him, since his mind moved twice as fast as theirs.

"I don't remember what's on this, precisely, but I know they're nice- all of them. I used to watch them before McGucket moved in to work on the Portal. I suppose you never heard about that though, so nevermind. Point being, I think you'll enjoy these. I just have to put this here and..."

Stan smirked in amusement at Ford when the man grinned as the reel clicked into place. He opened his mouth to cut his brother off before he could get going again, but stopped when he saw Dipper grab Mabel's hand, the two of them moving to retreat from the room.

"Oi, where you headed?"

The children startled and Dipped scratched the back of his neck while Mabel saved him by answering. "We're just gonna leave you guys alone now. Personal bizz an' all that. Yeahhh."

Before he could say anything in response to that, Mabel winked and took a turn dragging her sibling out of the room, Dipper uttering a short, "G'night." before disappearing from sight. Stan could hear them clambering up the stairs, whispering to each other softly enough that he couldn't catch what was being said. He only shook his head fondly at their antics. Those two really were the lights of his life most days, and it was times like these that that was brought to his attention.

He didn't know how he'd ever gone through life without them around, but he couldn't imagine never having met them now. He did know that once they went home, life would get pretty boring again. A final sharp click made Stan flinch and check on Ford, who'd completed hooking the film up, and he hummed under his breath. Actually, with him around, it might not be too boring at all...

It would take a period of adjustment to get used to someone other than the twins being around the Shack twenty-four-seven, but Stan would be more than happy to go through that period of time it if it meant Ford was the one whose company he would be getting used to. Stan was kind of thankful for these nightly memory joggings because those alone had allowed them to get used to each other faster than they might have and talk about things that had never been discussed in depth before then.

Stan wasn't exactly thrilled that he'd lost his entire life's story, even if it had been his idea to start with, but, shockingly enough to himself and probably everyone else, he was actually glad it had all worked out the way it had. Even if not remembering everything in one sitting grew progressively annoying, he and Ford had been able to just talk openly, about _everything_ , and while he wasn't completely sure of where it was they stood exactly, he rested easy on the knowledge that Ford… probably wasn't going to kick him out of the Shack like he'd wanted to when he'd first been brought back.

Stan wasn't sure exactly what they'd do about their living arrangement, but if he'd taken anything from the way his brother had been treating him the past few days, it was that they would figure it out. He sure hoped that was what Ford was thinking anyway. He was a little afraid to ask. He'd do it later- probably after the kids left. Yeah. Probably… Maybe.

"Okay," Ford said, jarring Stan out of his thoughts, "Sorry about that. Just let me know when you're ready."

Stan couldn't help but laugh at his brother then. Ford was practically vibrating with… well, he wasn't sure if it was excitement or nerves, but either way he looked like Mabel after her tenth cup of Mabel Juice™ and it was pretty hilarious to see his brother's mannerisms parallel his bubbly great niece. Ford only watched him with a mixture of bewilderment and concern. "What?"

"Nothing," Stan chortled, getting a hold of himself once more and waving his brother's next question off, "No, I didn't remember anything new."

After a moment of scrutinizing him, Ford nodded and turned his attention back to the task at hand, satisfied with the answer. He flicked on the projector and settled into the collapsable chair beside the sofa, his designated spot for the routine. It took a few seconds for the reel to begin playing, but Stan kept his attention glued to the wall where the picture would be popping up. He had no idea what he was in store for, but was eager to see nonetheless, because if the moments had been worth filming and saving for so long, they had to be special, and there was no way he wanted to miss even half a second of that.

The two watched and talked for hours, chatting after each individual clip before continuing with the next captured moment. They kept to the cycle until the late hours of the night crept up on them and one or two clips were lift on the reel that they were too tired to watch.

Ford was the first to break, surprising both of them with a yawn big enough Stan briefly worried his jaw might've been dislocated. Of course, that had set off a chain event, causing him to yawn too and realize just how beat he was. Neither one of them made any move to get up, though, as that had become part of the routine too. They'd exhaust themselves reminiscing, and then they'd just go to sleep. It wasn't the best thing for their backs, but the two didn't much care. There was something comforting about being able to fall asleep right next to the other. Something familiar.

Stan's lip twitched into a smile when he pictured the bunkbeds littered with random toys and knick knacks from their youth. Yeah, those had been the days, when it had just been the two of them, full of their childlike spunk and irrational senses of optimism. They'd sure had some fun back in the day. The short clip of him chasing Ford around with a paintbrush on the beach came to mind and Stan smiled as he peaked an eye open to check on his brother. He'd already closed his eyes and leaned heavily against him, his hair tickling Stan's chin when he tilted his head down.

A fond and content noise made it out of his throat and Ford purred back in response. Stan closed his eyes and chuckled softly. That was one of the weirder noises he'd heard from his brother since he'd come out of the portal, but it was one he could at least get behind. After all, if that was one of the more subtle ways Ford expressed happiness, who was he to complain?

Stan contemplated taking his hand out of where it had settled in the popcorn bowl to ruffle his twin's hair like he'd have done when they were younger, but he didn't feel like mustering up the energy it would take to move. He was comfy and he didn't want to ruin that. Besides, his limbs felt heavy enough he wasn't sure he'd make it all the way up to where Ford's head was rested against his shoulder.

Instead, Stan settled for a soft mutter. He hadn't dared to say it since… had it been right after that DD and More D thing with Dipper? Yeah. He hadn't said it since then, too afraid he wouldn't get the response he wanted, or any response at all. This time, it came as easily as telling Wendy to get back to work, and Stan knew it would be well received.

"G'night, Ford."

He didn't look to see his brother's reaction- he didn't have to when he felt Ford's arm wrap loosely around his shoulders, giving him a tight squeeze. The affection in his brother's tone when he finally responded made Stan's smile solidify on his face to the point where he didn't think he'd be able to get it off.

For so long he'd been waiting to hear the words echoed back at him, and from the way Ford spoke, his own smile evident, it sounded like he had been too.

"Goodnight, Stanley."

* * *

 **But nothing is a waste, If you learn from it.**


End file.
